


Somehow Here Again

by Mistflyer1102



Series: Homebound [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistflyer1102/pseuds/Mistflyer1102
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the Fall, John has begun to move on with life again. After narrowly escaping an assassination attempt, he realizes that there is a war in progress in the underworld, one that threatens the safety of himself and the last few he calls friends. But certain events better left alone are soon called into question, and John soon finds himself racing against the clock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drift

_Three years._

_Thirty-five days._

_Sixteen hours._

_Twenty-four minutes._

_Forty-five seconds and counting._

~*~*~*~*

“Thank you, Doctor.” The patient’s mother - Lili Beilschmidt, thirty, here on vacation with her husband and daughter - smiled as she helped her little girl down from the examination table. John Watson smiled back and even leaned down to give a high-five to the toddler (right hand, left elbow was dislocated) before she giggled and left. “Thank you for helping us, especially with the insurance complications.”

“Not a problem. Just keep an eye on Monica’s condition, and I’ll be faxing her paperwork to the hospital in Berlin,” John said, holding the door open for Mrs. Beilschmidt. Monica was staring entranced at the recently - installed fish tank, but turned when her mother walked by. “Here is a pain prescription that should tide you over until you return to Berlin, just have Monica’s doctor check her when you return. No strenuous physical activity until then.”

“But I wanna play with Daddy’s bird!” Monica whined as Mrs. Beilschmidt took the forms from John and began filling them out. “Birdie is going to be lonely!”

“My husband owns a small bird,” Mrs. Beilschmidt said by way of explanation, a small smile teasing the edges of her face.

Not for the first time since the Fall, John had wondered what... what he would think of this particular patient. Happily married no doubt; wedding ring was clean, there were no signs of stress around her eyes that suggested a cheating husband, a green hair ribbon that showed happiness in that she still felt young and in as much love as when she first met her husband. The care she devoted to little Monica, even as the girl tugged on her mother’s skirt with her good hand, begging to play with the father’s pet bird. She worked with her hands - John could see the calluses, thicker on one hand than the other, so it was likely that perhaps at some point in her life, Mrs. Beilschmidt had picked up a gun and would not be afraid to do so again -

_Stop._

Deducing wasn’t John’s thing, no; it was still too painful to take that up seriously with Scotland Yard (new staff, old ‘colleagues’ were still under close watch by the superintendent, who was also new) despite the intervening years. But he couldn’t help it sometimes, especially when memories happened to be plaguing him. Those days were also marked with an increase in the severity of his limp (he’d gone back to using the cane again a while ago) and remembered pain. Deducing was just something he did when he thought of him. It helped the ease the pain sometimes, when it wasn’t hurting, and he’d wonder how close or far from the mark he was.

Work – real, routine (dull, boring, tedious) work at the clinic - was the only thing that could occupy his mind and hands nowadays.

It kept his mind from dwelling on other things.

“So will that be all?” she asked, looking up at him. 

“Yes, thank you. Just don’t forget to check out with the receptionist, and she will help you with paperwork and payments.”

She smiled. “Of course. Thank you, Doctor Watson, for being able to help us on short notice,” she said before gently taking her daughter’s smaller hand and guiding her out of the examination room.

John watched them leave before going back to his office to glance at his patient schedule. He was about to go see his last patient for the day when Sarah suddenly appeared at the door. “John, I can take your last patient. Your, er, friend is waiting outside the clinic. She says it’s important,” she said quietly.

John paused, frowning. He couldn’t think of anyone who had stayed with him in the last two years, before Mrs. Hudson spent hours coaxing him out of his zombie-like state. He especially couldn’t think of a woman that bothered to care about him this long other than Sarah. “Um, who is she?”

“She didn’t say, just that she wanted a chat,” Sarah replied before turning around to leave. She paused in the doorway and repeated, “I can take your last patient, if you want.”

John hesitated, tempted to say no, but he was also curious about his visitor. “I’m sorry,” was all he was able to say before pushing the file labeled _Henry Sigerson_ across the table to her.

“See you tomorrow,” Sarah said finally before taking the file and leaving while John gathered his coat and cane. 

It wasn’t until he saw Anthea standing patiently at the entrance that he knew he was in for a long ride home

Despite having not seen the damn thing in a while, the black car was still extremely familiar as it waited patiently on the curbside when John finally left the building. He had half a mind to just keep walking, ignore the ‘minor government official’, but as he was reaching his decision, Anthea prodded him along to the open back door, and John sighed before limping toward the vehicle, mindful not to hit the other occupant with the cane ‘by accident’ as he slipped inside.

Mycroft Holmes looked as impeccable as ever, his ever-present umbrella resting across his knees. There were new faint stress lines around his eyes and mouth, but otherwise seemed as impenetrable as he did when the two first met. He nodded once in acknowledgement before the car door swung shut, leaving the two in sealed silence. John knew better than to speak first: to do so would be to secede conversation power over to Mycroft.

But -

John frowned as the car started up and pulled away from the curb. Mycroft looked exhausted, sad even, if the faint lines were looked at as a complete picture rather than just the recent changes. 

But almost as soon as he spotted it, the lines vanished underneath the usual mask.

“Three years is a long time to mourn a dead man, don’t you think?” he finally said, tilting his head.

“I’d hoped not to see you in just as long,” John said steadily, swallowing down the unexpected flare of anger in his chest.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “As it were, if circumstances were different, we would not be talking to each other right now,” he said, leaning back in his seat.

“You showing concern for my welfare. As… touched as I am, it’s not necessary,” John said curtly. “I stand by what I said that day.”

No need to clarify. “As do I, it seems,” Mycroft said, looking out the window. Before John could ask for clarification, Mycroft reached into his briefcase and pulled out a padded envelope. “I believe this belongs to you now, there’s really no point in me keeping it further,” he said, handing it over to John as though it burned him. “He only ever had your best interests at heart,” he added as John ripped the tab open.

“I-” John’s voice died when he gingerly pulled out a mobile… _Sherlock’s_ mobile.

“Like I said, there really is no point in me keeping it any longer,” Mycroft said quietly, folding his hands on his lap. 

“Is… is his last conversation recorded on here?” John asked hesitantly, wondering if he’d be forced to hear those awful last words – _That’s what people do, right? Leave a note_ – again. The first time was hard enough, a second time would be reopening old wounds.

“Any calls he ever made, and never erased, are still on there,” Mycroft replied. “It has proved to be useless in clearing my brother’s name or giving me the ease of knowledge of what precipitated… his death.”

John managed to refrain from pointing out that Mycroft himself had had a hand in it. Although, if the fractional eyebrow lift from the politician was any indication, chances were good that Mycroft had heard the accusation anyway, even if John hadn’t actually said the words out loud. Instead, he looked up at Mycroft and asked, “Is that all?”

“Of course, unless you have something to say.”

Did he? Oh, right, he did. “My black jacket. It’s gone, and I know you must have taken it when you were taking some of your brother’s things from the flat. Mrs. Hudson is the only other person who ever comes into the flat anymore, and I know she would have never taken it,” he said, ignoring the ever so slight wobble in his voice.

Mycroft sighed. “Honestly John, if I had your jacket, I would most certainly have given it back to you by now. But, since I do not have it, I cannot give it to you.”

John tried not to sigh, but failed anyway. He’d only discovered the jacket missing recently since he hadn’t left the flat very much for the first year and a half, and he usually wore jumpers and thick coats when leaving. He just never realized that it was missing until the one day he felt like wearing it and turned the flat inside out looking for it. He knew that Mycroft entered the flat once or twice before John chased him out for good, and Mrs. Hudson was the only other one who ever entered the flat on a regular basis. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t hold onto the jacket since she knew very well that it was John’s, but one never knew with Mycroft. While Mycroft was also likely to have an ulterior motive for keeping it, it was also just as likely that he didn’t genuinely have it.

“If you don’t have it, then where is it?” John asked curtly. “I’ve already turned the flat inside and out looking for it. 

“It’s just an article of clothing, why keep it at all?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

John closed his eyes and forced himself to count to ten; this was a Holmes, and the explanation ‘sentimental purposes’ might trigger a Holmes-esque lecture. “I had it before I ever met... met your brother, and I would like it back,” he finally said, looking up at Mycroft, whose expression was unreadable. 

“Well, I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t have it,” Mycroft said.

John nodded, looking out the window to distract himself. 

“Anything else then, before I leave you at 221B for the last time?”

 _Really?_ John didn’t voice that aloud. Instead he said, “There’s one other thing, though that we need to talk about.”

“Please proceed,” Mycroft replied.

“My email program. I know you’ve been hacking into it and deleting emails, which in normal society is considered a blatant disregard of privacy. I know it’s you because there’s no one out there who would do it, and you have the means to do so,” John said tiredly.

“Now, now, doctor, I was merely doing you a favor by eliminating emails that contained harmful viruses,” Mycroft replied calmly. “The anti-virus program on your computer has been updated, so I have already stopped.”

“How do I know that you didn’t just install some kind of bugging software into my computer?” John asked, and scowled at Mycroft’s soft chuckles. 

“Because John, out of all of the members of the Holmes family, you’re causing the least amount of trouble for me, and therefore do not require watching,” Mycroft replied. “Mummy got in her head recently to perhaps get the family together next year, and asked me to gather the... wayward members. You’d be surprised at how many cousins I have been left to contact. But in other words, I have more important matters than to further intrude on your privacy.”

John groaned; it was his and Lestrade’s worst nightmare becoming a reality. There were more Holmeses than either man suspected. “Do they all do the deducing and examining that he could do?” he asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “I only know of one cousin who puts that talent to active use, but he lives in New York City. Other than him, the others find careers that take them elsewhere from detective and police work.”

John waited for a few minutes, in case Mycroft had any more to say on the subject. When he didn’t volunteer anything else, John said, “Well, then, please take me back to Baker Street. Now.”

This was the end. John just had to take the final steps himself.

“Well, here we are at Baker Street,” Mycroft said as the black car came up to the curb. “Do try to get some rest, doctor.”

“I will.” John didn’t say anything more, didn’t thank Mycroft for the (unnecessary, unwanted) ride and chat. Instead, he just grabbed his cane and opened the door once the car had come to a complete stop and stepped out. He closed the door and limped toward the achingly familiar black door with the three gold-plate numbers. He ignored the sound of the engine pulling away.

He was reaching for the door handle when someone accidentally slammed into him from the side, causing him to lose his cane and suddenly grab the stair railing for support. “What the-”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” The female jogger pulled her earbuds out before leaning down to pick up the dropped cane. “I am so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she said, handing John his cane. Her left hand came up to brush some dark hair from her eyes, and John noted the gold wedding ring.

“It’s all right, I was just a little startled,” he said as she paused the small iPod before tucking it back into her pocket. 

“Are you alright?” she asked worriedly, unconsciously slipping back into an American accent. “I didn’t hurt you or anything, did I?”

“No, I’m fine, don’t worry. I’ve encountered worse, believe me,” he said, half-jokingly as he reached for the doorknob again.

“I do,” she said quietly, causing him to stop and look back at her. “I mean, I’ve read your blog, you know, when you blogged those cases. My husband introduced me to it, he heard about it from his employer, and he’s interested in that sort of thing so, yeah, that’s how he found it. But I mean it. That I do believe you. Still do.”

John stared at her. He was used to virtual strangers approaching him out of the blue to assure him that they believed in Sherlock Holmes as did he, but it had been a year and a half since then. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Amy Falsworth. My husband’s name is Colin; he’s lived in London all his life. He never had a situation that required yours and Mr. Holmes’s assistance, but he tells others that it’s hard to come up with information like that on the fly.”

“But if you remember, Miss Riley also pointed out that Holmes had it all pre-arranged. That’s how he knew how each crime was solved.” John hated being the Devil’s Advocate, but he also didn’t want someone to believe him just because they had incorrect facts.

Amy shrugged. “Colin actually didn’t read The Sun until a few weeks after, er, the incident,” she said, and John could sense the delicate sidestep at the end of her sentence. “He and I were in the United States for my mother’s birthday and my parents’ anniversary,” she said. “We found out what happened through your blog.” 

“United States? Where are you from?” John asked, frowning slightly. 

“An hour outside of Boston. I met Colin on an international internship after college, and we had a long-distance relationship until he asked me to come live with him. He does interior design, he’s got a sharp eye for detail,” she said, shrugging a little uncomfortably; John suspected she didn’t want to remind him of his loss with talk of her own happy life. 

“Ah. I should probably let you get back to your run,” John said, unsure of what else to say.

She nodded. “Colin wants me back soon. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Mrs. Falsworth. Thank you for your support,” he said quietly.

Amy gave him a brief smile before slipping the earbuds back in and continuing down the road.

John watched her go before finally entering the building.

~*~*~*~*

221B Baker Street was his sanctuary.

After greeting an enthusiastic Gladstone, John made his way back up to his flat, the dog following close behind. Mrs. Hudson often watched the dog when John was at the clinic, but today she was out as well, and so Gladstone had been waiting patiently for John’s return. Granted, the dog couldn’t talk, but John needed the company more than anything at the moment.

“Easy there,” he said as he leaned on his cane to get the keys out of his other pocket. Unlocking the door, he only smiled as Gladstone barreled straight into the flat and settled happily in his usual bed by the fireplace. John shooed him away long enough to get a fire going, and then settled down in his favorite chair, Gladstone settling back down in his own bed.

Here, Sherlock’s memory was preserved the way John remembered him, untainted by the media and the disbelievers. It was the closest to normal that John could get without wrenching his heart to bits, even though it had taken a long time to accept it as such. It was the soothing balm on reality, which was probably why he always felt an odd sort of peace here; Sherlock’s presence was still somehow ingrained in the furniture and walls, enough to allow John to slip into a private fantasy that he would wake up and it would all be gone and Sherlock would be puttering around the flat as he always did. 

The rent turned out not to be an issue; despite John’s offers to pay both rents, Mrs. Hudson insisted not to worry about Sherlock’s half, something about an agreement worked out with Mycroft. 

Drawn to the laptop’s gravitational pull, John opened the computer to find it was still open to his last post, made several weeks ago:

_Close Call at Regents Park_

_Went for a walk with Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone, it's the first time in a while we've spoken; she's been busy with her sister and I at the surgery. Thought a bit of fresh air would do us both some good. Apparently there was a bloody sniper in the building across the street, and tried to shoot us both when we were about to enter the park. I pulled Mrs. Hudson down, she's all right now - and fired back, but it didn't really end until Mycroft Holmes  of all people arrived and the sniper stopped firing and took off. He didn't get far; Mycroft's henchmen were waiting for him in the back alley and chased him down the street until he was shot down. No one, except for the sniper, was hurt._

_The timing was so impeccable it was... suspicious._

_Mycroft, since I know you're reading this, please give me my black jacket back. Preferably unbugged. I just discovered it missing, and I think I lost it in the move out of 221B. You know, when you were being oh so helpful taking... taking your brother's things. Thank you._

Then, underneath it, was The Comment that had sparked a fresh wound in John’s healing chest:

_'He doesn't have the jacket. It's nice and warm, but will return it soon. -SH.'_

The comment was otherwise unsigned, and John knew that it was either Mycroft (he can deny it as much as he wanted to) or an anonymous reader who didn’t mind being cruel and pranking him. 

The sniper was now dead; unbeknownst to Mycroft, Molly had shown John a copy of the autopsy report a couple days later. The cause of death was obvious: bullet to the back. He was still anonymous though, and John knew that it was going to stay that way as long as Mycroft had some say about it.

Mycroft Holmes was one person that John could never figure out, even when Sherlock lived. John hadn’t spoken to Mycroft at all for the three years following Sherlock’s death, especially when the pain was still raw. At the end of the first year, John stopped seeing Ella; she seemed intent on opening wounds that were trying to heal by John ignoring them. Anything that could be perceived as a weapon disappeared from the flat one day, and it wasn’t until six months later that the gravity of his death finally hit John - no matter how much he thought about it, Sherlock Holmes was not going to walk into the flat and drag John into the next round of madness and adventure.  
And there was nothing that could ever bring him back.

The other thing that John didn’t understand was his apparent inclusion into the Holmes family. When he asked Mycroft, a week after the Fall, all the official said was that it was something that Sherlock would have wanted, seeing that he was attached to the doctor enough that he made John the executor of his will in the last few months before the Fall, just after the case in Baskerville. “He asked me anyway to keep an eye on you when he couldn’t, just for his peace of mind,” Mycroft had added before refusing to answer any further questions. 

John could not have imagined when this conversation between the Holmes brothers took place, seeing that they (Sherlock at least) could not stand to be near each other for longer than necessary. The best John could come up with was that the two had texted each other, especially since John did not have either man’s phone at the time (Sherlock’s had disappeared almost right away, Molly said it was needed for possibly clearing Sherlock’s name and never mentioned it again), he couldn’t prove or disprove his theory. Even scanning through the recorded calls, some mundane, others interesting, and scrolling through old text messages, John couldn’t find anything that gave away how Sherlock had communicated that much with his brother.

Well, he’d never know now.

For some odd reason, the resounding silence throughout 221B seemed to disagree, as did the dusty skull on the mantelpiece.


	2. Severed

_“It’s not healthy, these visits to the cemetery.”_

_“I know. He’d call it sentimental.” A sigh. “I have what I need anyway, to find closure. All I’d needed, Molly, was his phone.”_

_“What?”_

_“Mycroft gave me his mobile two months ago. There was nothing on it that I could use to convince myself that there was even the smallest chance he survived.”_

_“Oh.”_

~*~*~*~*

He was used to this.

The quiet safe tedium of a routine. Today, routine dictated that he visit the cemetery, just for a few minutes like he always did. Long enough to pretend that he could hear Sherlock’s voice, whether it was in reprimand at John for showing ‘sentiment’, or in fear from something that had spooked them both in a case (Baskerville especially came to mind). John stayed as long as he didn’t hear Sherlock’s last words before the jump; that was usually his signal to leave.

Running his fingers lightly across the top of the black stone, which stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding snow, John quietly studied the newest addition to the marker: dates. Sherlock’s birthday, and the day of the Fall. Underneath was a small coat of arms that John suspected belonged to the Holmes family. Mycroft must have finally caved, accepting that his brother truly wasn’t coming home, and added the dates, which in turn granted John the courage to take the last few steps to healing. This, combined with the phone he’d gotten last month, John knew it was finally all over. He was just having a slightly hard time letting go. 

How... sentimental to remain so loyal to someone who was already dead.

Shoving his hands into jacket pockets, to shield them from the blistery wind, John stared at the gold name. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the comfortable silence settle around him. 

“Ran into another person who believe in you,” he finally said. “Quite friendly. I think you would have liked deducing the husband though even though I didn’t get to meet him yet.”

Silence. Sherlock most likely would have grilled John for details, asking about the small tells that John always missed.

“Going to see Molly today, she’s fine. Misses you, but doesn’t really say it,” John said. It felt like he was stalling, trying not to mention the last few words that would sever ties with the past. The last thing barring him from full closure.

“Mrs. Hudson says hello, by the way,” he said finally. Wrinkling his nose, he said, “She found your fungi experiment the other day, the one that you left in the cupboard. I’ve stopped being complacent about those because every time I think one’s gone, I always find one more. The least you could have done before leaving was at least tell me or Mrs. Hudson where all your experiments were. I’m half-expecting to find a body part that is slowly gaining sentience, that’s partially why I’m afraid to look under your bed. Everything else has been cleaned and packed away except for whatever you may have squirreled away under your bed. Mycroft even left your violin alone; we both know how much you would have hated him touching your things. God knows you were possessive about that enough when you were around.”  
John looked up when he heard bird chirping somewhere nearby, a faint warble in the distance. After a few moments of silence, another bird responded, closer this time. 

“Well, that’s it really,” John said finally, leaning on his cane slightly. “I think, what happened with Mary, I wasn’t ready to move on quite yet, and just tried to speed up the process a bit.” He let the silence overwhelm him again as he tried to think of the best way to phrase the next part. Swallowing, he said, “This is probably going to be my last visit, Molly doesn’t think it’s healthy for me to keep doing this. Says so every time I visit her. And I actually listen to what she says, she was very supportive that first year.”

No response, but then again, he really hadn’t been expecting one. 

Touching the top of the headstone once, he took a deep breath to steady himself. “Good bye, Sherlock Holmes,” he said finally, and then turned around and left.

~*~*~*~*

“You went to his grave again, didn’t you?”

John sighed at Molly’s accusation. “Just to say goodbye for the last time, nothing more,” he said, relaxing in his chair while Molly fluttered around the latest body on the examination table. Nodding toward the corpse, he asked, “Who was he?”

“Don’t know yet. Came in earlier this morning from an apartment complex near New Scotland Yard, that new one. Someone called saying he heard a scuffle downstairs and men yelling at each other, so Lestrade went down and found this man lying on the living room carpet with a gun wound to the head. Bullet’s missing though,” she said, shuddering at the thought.

John felt his stomach turn over slightly. The killer would have had to either use his fingers or an instrument to pry the bullet out of the victim’s skull, assuming that it hadn’t fallen out on its own. “When was the gunshot fired?” he asked.

“Lestrade says that’s the worrisome thing. No gunshot was heard. Neighbor didn’t even know the victim was dead until the police arrived,” Molly said, examining the chest before making incision marks with a pen. 

John snorted. “Sherlock would have probably figured it out from looking at the crime scene alone. Was the bullet on the ground?”

“No. Lestrade apparently checked the empty apartment twice, even tried to use Sherlock’s methods in finding the bullet. It’s not there.”

“Then the killer doesn’t want to be found,” John said, leaning back. “Were there any signs of a struggle?”

“Judging from the bruise marks on the victim’s neck, I’d say so,” Molly said, standing back to put on a fresh pair of gloves and a mask. "Preliminary scan shows that there was a struggle, the killer had the upper hand at first, but scratches on the forearms show that he or she started to lose, and badly. The scratches move up the arms, showing that the would-be victim was bare-handed and didn’t anticipate a struggle. Victim was strong, killer must have been wiry.” She pulled a scalpel out and began cutting along the incision lines on the forehead. 

“Where was he shot in the head? Front? Back? Side?” John asked, a thought occurring to him.

“Back. Somehow he was shot in the head while struggling with-”

“There was a second gunman.”

Molly stopped and looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“Second gunman, comrade of the first attacker,” John said, seeing the connections form. “He or she got concerned that this wasn’t a battle that the first person could win, and shot the victim in the head to ensure victory.”

“But over what? It can’t have been the flat, there was nothing there! Not even furniture!” Molly said before returning to her work. “First priority here is locating the bullet, there’s a chance that the first group of doctors missed it.”

“Sherlock would have had fun with this corpse,” John remarked. “Analyzed the blood for something irregular, the like. Maybe traces of some special chemical that’s found in only one type of gun.”

“Actually John, that’s quite brilliant!” Molly said, grinning at him through her mask before returning to her work. “I’ll have to get Henry on it once he gets back from his sick leave.”

“Henry? Who is Henry?” John asked curiously. Where had he heard that name before?

“Henry Sigerson. He’s been an intern here for the last couple months, smart kid. I really like him,” she admitted, turning a faint shade of pink in embarrassment. “But it won’t work out,” she added as she went back to the corpse. “For starters, I’m his boss, and he’s already got someone to go home to once he finishes schooling here in London.” She laughed and said, “Could have given Sherlock a run for his money!”

John laughed, weak but genuine. “I’d loved to have seen that,” he said, re-adjusting his grip on his cane.

“Me too,” Molly said as she continued poking around in the victim. “Well, there’s no bullet in the brain anyway, that’s too bad,” she said, setting the dirty instruments off to the side before reaching for a syringe. “Going to take blood samples now, I’ll have Henry get some later too for the chemical analysis.”

“Is Henry as much of a troublemaker as Sherlock was?” John asked.

“He’s nice, but he still would have stood his ground against Sherlock Holmes,” Molly said. “No nonsense type of kid, hasn’t quite decided what he wants to do when he graduates from uni.” She then set two blood-filled vials off to the side and pulled her gloves off. “Now I’m going to take the rest of his clothes off, work on his chest,” she said as she pulled fresh gloves on. 

“You haven’t done that already?” John asked, keeping his gaze focused on Molly; she had moved, leaving the head visible. John was used to gory sights, but after the Fall, he’d found that his tolerance of head injuries had diminished. 

“No, not yet. But enough about me and Henry. How are you?” she asked as she pulled out a pair of scissors and began cutting the fabric.

“Fine. Favorite jacket’s still missing, but Mycroft at least stopped deleting my emails,” John replied.

“Why was he doing that?”

“Claimed he was getting rid of viruses, but I think he was either installing spy software in my computer or deleting stuff he didn’t want me to see. I’m not technologically inclined, so I can’t recover the deleted emails or tell for sure,” John replied, shrugging.

“Weird. Bring your laptop over sometime and I’ll take a look and see what I can- oh... this... this is new,” Molly said, her voice faltering as she stared in abject horror at something on the corpse. 

Frowning, John stood up and limped over.

There was a message, three words, carved into the victim’s chest. Whoever had done it had used a thin blade, possibly a razor blade or box cutter. The words read;

_One more left._

John frowned. “What do you think it means?” he whispered, looking over at Molly, but found that she had turned distinctly pale at the sight of the words. “Molly, are you alright?” he asked worriedly. “Molly?”

She seemed to flinch at the sound of his voice. “S-Sorry, I’m not used to finding messages on a body,” she said finally, taking a step away from the corpse. 

“What do you think it means? For whom do you think it was intended?” John said quietly, brow furrowing in concern as Molly continued to back away from the body. 

“I... I don’t know. Lestrade said he asked around the complex, but no one knew him, he didn’t even live there,” Molly said. Shivering, she said, “I’ll be right back, I’ll run one of the blood samples through an analyzer.” Yanking her gloves and mask off, she snatched one of the two vials and disappeared rapidly through the doors, leaving John alone with the body.

Sighing, John moved back to his chair, only to accidentally disturb a box with his cane, sending it to the ground and spilling lab coats everywhere. Ignoring his protesting leg, he pushed them all back into the box, pausing when he noticed that one of the coats had a name embroidered on the right side - _Mary Harper_ \- but figured it was one of St. Bart’s staff that had traveled to a partner hospital. Shaking his head, he stuffed it all back into its box. He was just settling back on the stool right as Molly came back in talking away to a tall, lanky young teen right behind her. John couldn’t get a good look at the newcomer; he was covered head to toe in scrubs with his surgical mask fixed. Wisps of blond curly hair escaped the cap. 

“Oh, John, this is Henry Sigerson, my intern. Henry, this is Doctor John Watson,” Molly said, pausing long enough to reach for a new mask and gloves. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” John said, smiling at the teen.

“Likewise,” Henry mumbled almost shyly. Whatever Molly had been talking about before they got in was evidently more interesting than John, but John honestly didn’t mind. 

Instead, he settled back as Molly directed Henry around the examination table before sending him off with a couple full vials.  
“He’s also going to monitor the DNA analyzer, just in case. Turns out he was in after all, I’m glad that he’s feeling better,” Molly said happily.

“What was he sick with?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say,” Molly replied.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard his name before today, or at least seen it somewhere, I don’t remember,” John said, watching Molly now.

She seemed to pause in what she was doing. “Oh?”

“Like I said, I don’t remember,” John said, leaning back. Molly seemed... tense. “I’ll let you know once I remember, but I don’t think you have to worry about him being some mastermind in disguise,” he said, remembering with a shudder ‘Jim from IT’, when Moriarty first approached Sherlock and John all those years ago.

It didn’t seem to help Molly feel better, no doubt she too remembered that day. “Thanks...” she said finally, and began working at the corpse again. 

The two were quiet for an indeterminable length of time when they heard brisk footsteps in the hall accompanied by an all too familiar _tap, tap_ of an umbrella against tile. If possible, Molly tensed up even more as the footsteps drew closer to the double lab doors.

John kept an open, innocently puzzled expression on his face as Lestrade pushed the doors open and walked into the lab, closely followed by a peeved Mycroft Holmes. “Lestrade. Didn’t think I’d run into you here,” John said, keeping any old emotions that might have lingered bottled tightly; he hadn’t seen Lestrade in several years, not since the Fall. The two had just simply kept to their circles after Sherlock’s death, each unwilling to face the truth. 

“John,” Lestrade said calmly, as though they were just meeting for the first time in a couple days instead of years. Turning to Molly, he said, “You’ve got quite a skittish assistant, Molly. He bolted from the room as soon as we walked in.”

“Henry’s just been here for a couple months, he’s shy even on a good day,” Molly said, a bright smile suddenly on her face. Her voice betrayed her however, wobbling slightly when she spotted Mycroft. “He’s my new intern, his background got checked and everything, I made sure,” she added as an afterthought.

Mycroft merely arched an eyebrow. “Was there a reason to prompt this check?” he asked mildly, studying Molly, who squirmed.

“Er, no. Just, you know, I took into consideration what happened last time, and made sure he was not some... criminal mastermind,” Molly said, shrinking slightly. John got the impression that her (irrational?) fear of Mycroft was backing her into a corner.

“I think that was a reasonable course of action, Molly. I’m more interested in why Mr. Holmes is here in the first place?” John said, jumping and redirecting the conversation topic back to Mycroft.

Mycroft gave John a little smile, one that promised trouble later. “Oh, Lestrade here was talking to me about acquiring the CCTV footage concerning this man’s death,” he said, gesturing to the still-open corpse, “When a red flag was tripped in a federal database. St. Bart’s DNA analyzer and hospital database is wired to the databases in the government, and the most recent search tripped a monitored name in the government database.”

 _Oh bloody hell, not again,_ was all John could think of.

Molly swallowed. “I assure you that Henry had no idea about that, he was just doing something that I asked him to do.”

“I know.” For a moment, Mycroft looked distracted, as though he wasn’t standing there with them in the morgue of St. Bart’s. John felt a flash of concern; this was the second time he’d seen the normally unshakeable ‘minor government official’ distracted or otherwise showing a sentimental emotion. His face twitched, and he sighed as he glanced back at the corpse. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something when he spotted the three words on the dead man’s chest. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, “What does that say?”

Molly didn’t dare ask for clarification. “It says ‘One more left’,” she said nervously.

“What name came up on the database?” John asked, his sixth sense flaring in warning like it used to when Sherlock had just latched onto an important piece of information, and wasn’t planning on sharing it with John. “Mycroft, what are you hiding from us?”

There was a momentary silence as Mycroft glanced back at Molly with narrowed eyes. She only swallowed and shook her head. 

Glancing back at the body, Mycroft said finally, “Raymond Demonde. I had his name flagged because he was a labeled threat who had disappeared off my radar some time ago, and I had mistakenly assumed at the time that he would never come back.” Tilting his head, he added, “Clearly, I was either wrong, or he ran afoul of someone else.”

John was surprised to see that Mycroft was shaken enough to speak that much about a sensitive topic. “He ran afoul of two someones,” he said, catching Mycroft’s attention. “Scratches on his arms show that he was about to kill someone else when a second person shot him in the head.”

“We didn’t find anything at the scene to suggest that there was a second person in the room,” Lestrade said slowly. “That’s why I asked Mr. Holmes to let me see the tapes, in case I missed something.”

“Tapes that have conveniently disappeared,” Mycroft said, his jaw twitching at the thought of losing something critical like that from right under his nose. “Only my brother would have been smart enough to get around my security systems, Lord knows he did it plenty of times while he was still alive.”

“You also once told me that only Sherlock Holmes was smart enough to trick you, after the case with Irene Adler,” John said without thinking, the memory rising unexpectedly.

Mycroft quietly regarded John for a moment before glancing suspiciously back at Molly, who was studiously examining the corpse again. “Indeed I did,” he finally said.

“But back to the second person in the room. “Why was he there?” Lestrade asked.

“Presumably to kill this man. I suspect he also left that rather grisly message as well,” Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella thoughtfully. Shaking his head, he said, “I’d reopen the case, but the two men I had on it are missing. Well, one is dead, the other is missing.”

“And it’s not something we could look at? What were your people’s names?” John asked. If Mycroft was willingly giving up information, it was an opportunity that shouldn’t be wasted.

Mycroft was quiet, and John thought for a moment that he was going to back out and withdraw into his private shell in order to hunt down the victim’s killers. But he glanced at the body again, and said, “He is dead now, I suppose. No longer a threat, so no longer my concern.” Glancing at Lestrade, he said, “I suggest you simply close this case now, Detective Inspector.”

“What if the killer comes for his next victim? This can’t have been an off-chance happenstance,” Lestrade said, staring at the politician in disbelief. “I can’t just stand by and-”

“Actually, you can, and you will, because I have my own suspicions about the killer’s identity and will investigate them on my own,” Mycroft said pleasantly. He nodded to John and said, “Good day, doctor. Inspector.” Then he left without another word.

“What the hell was that about?” Lestrade exploded after a few moments of silence.

“I guess we’ll never know,” John said, glancing back at the body. 

After all, dead men told no tales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I made some medical equipment up. Or at least the names for it, if anyone knows the proper procedure, please let me know.


	3. Names

By all rights, everything should have ended there.

John should have been able to go home from St. Bart’s, take Gladstone on their daily walk, and then call it a day. Let Mycroft and the Yard handle the questionable circumstances of Raymond Demonde’s death. Life would have proceeded on as normal.

As it was, when he got out of the cab at 221B Baker Street, he found a member of Sherlock’s old homeless network huddled up against the fence, shivering violently despite the fact he had a threadbare jacket, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. John had interacted with a few members over the last three years, treated a few even, so he didn’t think twice when he approached the man and asked, “Are you alright? Do you need medical attention?”

The man jumped, as though not anticipating him to be there. Fear flashed through green eyes before he asked, “And you are?”

American. It was faded, indicating that the man had traveled quite extensively around the world before arriving to John’s doorstep, but Sherlock said that it was always in times of great stress that a man’s true accent came out despite all attempts to cover it up. “Dr. John Watson, I can help you,” he said, wishing his knee wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t kneel and comfort the shivering stranger.

There was silence as fear was slowly replaced by recognition, followed closely by an expression that John was rather familiar with: calculation. “Dr. John Watson, as in the blogger?” the man guessed, his limbs loosening slightly.

“The one and only,” John assured him, trying to shake off the sense of unease that this man gave him. “Do you need medical attention?” he repeated.

The man slowly nodded. “I... I just got out of a hostage situation,” he admitted quietly, glancing around warily. “I... I need to hide.”  
John glanced up and down the street, but found it to be empty. “Then come on, let’s go,” he said, nodding to the black door nearby. “I can call the police once we’re in there, and I’ll check you over while they come.”

“Please do,” the man said, using the iron fence to support himself as he pulled himself back up to his feet. “Prison sounds so much better than what I had to deal with for the last three years.”

John froze, the key only halfway to the door. “Beg your pardon?” he said, his grip tightening on his cane. He didn’t have his gun (stupid, stupid, stupid!), but his cane would serve well as an impromptu weapon. 

“I won’t lie, doc, I’m wanted for international stuff, but I’d prefer any kind of prison over being a hostage any day,” the man said quietly, looking miserable as he hunched his shoulders forward and kicked a little pile of snow. 

“What are you wanted for?” John asked, turning to face the other man now.

“Gunrunning. Illegal, I know, but I’d rather be in a jail cell then have some vengeful psycho nutter point a gun at my face,” he said, looking up pathetically at John.

“Then do you mind if I call the police first?” John asked, not quite believing that he was having this conversation with an international criminal. 

The man shrugged. “Go right ahead, but make sure it’s the cops. I’d really rather not meet anyone in the British government, if you get my drift,” he said, hugging himself to keep warm.

John certainly did, although now he was curious about what this man had to fear from Mycroft Holmes. “Why don’t you come in then, so you don’t have to wait for the police in the cold? It’s getting late anyway” he suggested, deciding not to mention the CCTV cameras that were no doubt trained on the front door. 

“Sure thing. Do you have any coffee? I haven’t had a decent cup in years,” the man said eagerly. “Oh, and my name is Tom Williams. Real name, don’t worry,” he added as John unlocked the door to the building.

“You’re that desperate to get arrested?” John asked, completely confused as the two of them tiptoed past Mrs. Hudson’s flat and up the stairs to 221B.

“Two Brits had me as their hostage for two and a half years. One wouldn’t let the other shoot me so long as I provided the information he wanted,” Tom said, shuddering as he gingerly sat down on the couch; he seemed to instinctively know that the two armchairs were off-limits. “Unfortunately, the one with the trigger finger was the one who kept the gun trained on me all the time. And he was a sniper, ex-military if I had to guess. Got to witness him in action when the three of us were in New York City, and he’s a good shot,” Tom continued, flinching at the memory as John set about making coffee. Gladstone meanwhile continued to watch Tom from his bed by the fire that John had started after calling New Scotland Yard, never moving.

“You traveled to New York City? How did you get in the plane without getting caught?” John asked, turning to glance at Tom. 

“Well, the sniper let the other guy, the leader, borrow his military credentials so he had an excuse to have a gun in his bags. The sniper was already in New York for a family obligation, but came as soon as the leader called,” Tom said, twitching and reflexively glancing out the window, where night had completely fallen now. “They never identified themselves around me, they were really careful. I didn’t recognize either man, but I got the sense they didn’t work well with each other. Sniper was there under orders from someone, someone high up in the British government, I guessed. The leader didn’t like him sometimes, but I realized that the sniper was there to protect the leader. I got left alone a lot too, always in isolated rooms. Had to listen to languages other people were using and use that as a basis for guessing my location.” Tom stopped and shuddered again as John handed him his coffee. “I’m sorry for dumping all of this on you.”  
“It’s all right, you’ll be safe soon,” John assured him as he sat down in his armchair.

“I know, but I can’t shake the sense that the sniper is hunting me down right now, and that he’ll kill me before I get a chance to tell someone,” Tom said, sipping the coffee. John couldn’t tell from a brief perusal how bad off Tom actually was, but if anything, he suspected it was just a case of malnourishment. Whoever held him hostage had wanted him alive, but barely enough to make him desperate for food, which was used as a reward for cooperation.

“Tom, what did they want from you?” John asked. leaning forward.

Tom hesitated. “I am a gunrunner,” he said finally. “I sell weapons to anyone who asks, I don’t care to know what the weapons are used for,” he said, glancing uneasily out the window. “These two men, when they came to me three years ago, they wanted the names of nine previous clients,” he said quietly, staring at the coffee mug in his hands. “I told them I didn’t have their names, just of the man who was paying for them.”

“Which was?” John probed. When Tom hesitated, John said, “The more you tell me now, the more I can tell the police if something were to happen to you.”

Tom nodded before looking up at John. “Jim Moriarty. The man who paid for nine, high-grade sniper rifles was Jim Moriarty,” he whispered.

John felt his heart freeze: _Moriarty._ Even years later, the man’s name still reminded John of serial cabbies, Semtex vests, and worst of all, the Fall. “Did you ever hear or see him? Moriarty?” John asked, fighting to keep his voice steady despite his rising panic.

Tom shook his head. “It was always through a middleman. ‘Moriarty’ was just the name on the cash deposit slip release form.” He quirked a small smile. “You know, the leader between the two Brits asked the very same question. About Moriarty. Also asked about the middleman, but honestly, I think the middleman is dead now. I told the leader of the guy’s address.”

“And?” John prompted.

Tom quirked a sad smile. “A person can’t exactly survive a fall off a bridge into the Seine, now can he? Police ruled it an accidental death, no questions asked.”

“Did anyone die recently? That you know of?” John asked, remembering the dead man in the morgue. “Anyone who might give the killer cause to write ‘One more left’ in the skin?”

Tom smirked now, leaning back in the couch. “Simple, isn’t it? Nine targets, eight dead, one left. And I think I know which of the nine might be left... the leader was always planning to leave the best for last. As for the message,” here Tom leaned forward and whispered, “Who could have possibly been the intended receiver? The police? You? The government? Or...” he shrugged and then said, “Perhaps the mortician?”

John stiffened. “Are you saying that the woman who examined the body is in danger?” he whispered.

Tom shook his head. “I’m saying that whoever read the message is in cahoots with the leader, who else would read it? The gravedigger? The cops?”

“You think that the police were meant to have seen it?”

Tom shrugged as he sipped his coffee again. “The only reason I escaped the other day was because the sniper and the leader were going to same neighborhood as New Scotland Yard. Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to know if someone died recently by a gunman’s bullet?” he asked, tilting his head at John.

“So you think that the police were the intended receivers?” John pressed.

“No, but if I had to fudge a guess, it would be the leader’s contact. Someone who keeps the two up to date, but can also monitor medical records and has access into the morgue. Hence, my guess about the mortician being the intended receiver of the message,” Tom said, fiddling with the ceramic mug.

“Well, the mortician on the case is a harmless woman, a friend of mine actually,” John said, pausing as another thought occurred to him. “But... she does have an assistant, someone named Henry Sigerson. Does that name sound familiar?”

“Yeah, but in a different context, I thought he was a doctor in a New York hospital, St. Mary’s to be exact. That’s the lab coat I saw anyway,” he said, shrugging. “It was in a garbage bin as I was getting dragged out of the latest hidey-hole in New York.”

“Hm.” John was quiet as he perused the pieces in front of him, much more than he’d ever think he’d have. Mycroft would undoubtedly be interested in this, but there was also the fact that Tom didn’t want to see Mycroft. “How do you know Mycroft Holmes?” he finally asked.

“The sniper threatened to send me to him in a box if I didn’t cooperate. And besides, who in the criminal world _hasn’t_ heard of Mycroft Holmes? Got to know your enemy after all,” Tom said, rolling his eyes.

“So the sniper knows Mycroft Holmes?” John persisted, sensing a lead.

“I guess? It’s hard to tell, they don’t talk about him all that much, especially after the trip to New York City,” Tom said shrugging.

_Knock, knock._

“Relax, that’s probably just the police,” John assured him even as he heard Mrs. Hudson opening the door and greeting someone outside.

“John? The police say they’re here to- oh, hello dear, I’m sorry John, I didn’t realize you had a guest,” Mrs. Hudson said, pausing when she saw Tom on the couch.

“Sorry ma’am, I’ll be going now,” he said respectfully, handing the mug back to John. “Thank you, Doctor Watson, for putting me up for a couple hours,” he said as the two of them left the flat and went down the stairs to greet the young female officer waiting patiently at the doorstep.

She smiled when she made eye contact with John. “Sergeant Wilkinson,” she said, extending a hand. Something seemed a tad bit off about her speech, and she spoke slowly, but John was more distracted by her rank bars than her voice.

New one then. “Make sure he gets to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and have him call me when you arrive,” John said to Wilkinson, who nodded. Smiling reassuringly at Tom, she gestures for him to head out to the waiting vehicle.

_Grrr..._

John jumped at Gladstone’s sudden growl, and smiled apologetically at Wilkinson. “I’m sorry about the dog, he just gets uneasy around strangers,” he said. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Gladstone was probably picking up on John’s anxiety about police officers, something that was actually quite new but John could pinpoint the source of.

“It’s all right, dogs are usually considered to be good judges of character. Present company considering,” Wilkinson said, glancing pointedly after Tom. She smiled, and then said, “Good evening.” Then she turned and left.

“What did she want?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking up at John.

“She was just taking Tom into police custody, he wanted it,” John said, unwilling to get Mrs. Hudson involved with a potentially lethal situation; it was something he’d made an effort to do even when Sherlock was alive, especially after the C.I.A. agents had ambushed her in an attempt to get Irene Adler’s phone. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Hudson, it’s not our concern anymore.”

“If you say so. Do you want some tea before you go to bed, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking worriedly at John.

John smiled, just for her. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson, I have some tea getting cold upstairs,” he said. “Good night,” he added, pausing on his way up the stairs.

“Good night dear, and please do try and get some rest.”

“Come on Gladstone,” John called softly, and smiled when the English bull puppy turned around and scampered up the stairs on stubby legs, almost tripping on the last step. John closed the door behind him and made himself a new cup of tea while putting the used coffee mug into the (clean) sink. 

~*~*~*~*~*

He was just starting to head upstairs to his room forty minutes later to change for bed when he heard a faint knocking sound outside. Frowning, he glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost midnight. It wasn’t until he heard Mrs. Hudson greeting Lestrade downstairs that he figured that the detective inspector was there to see him.

“John?” Mrs. Hudson said, opening the door. “Lestrade is here, wants to talk to you about something from the morgue?” she asked, trying not to look too appalled. “You won’t be bringing in body parts, will you?” she suddenly asked as she stepped aside for Lestrade.

“No dead bodies, I promise,” John assured her before gesturing for Lestrade to head up the stairs and into the flat. For a moment, neither man said anything, and John swallowed the ache as he remembered the last time that the two of them had stood in the flat together, when Sherlock was still alive but was being accused of orchestrating every incident that Moriarty perpetrated. John wondered if Lestrade remembered that or every faux drug bust he ever conducted here over time.

Enough of that, not here, not now.

“Was there a problem with the transfer?” he asked, trying to get down to business.

Lestrade paused in his own perusal of the flat, turning to stare at him. “Transfer? What transfer?”

Something cold settled in John’s gut. “I called New Scotland Yard because a criminal turned hostage had come here asking to be arrested, he was seeking asylum,” John said. “A female sergeant, Sergeant Wilkinson, came here and picked him up.”

“John, what are you talking about?” Lestrade said, frowning. “The Yard’s been quiet all evening.”

It was years of training that kept John from groaning out loud or delving into panic over Tom’s unlucky fate. “It was a trap, and I walked straight into it.”

“Trap? What trap? John, what are you talking about?” Lestrade asked, looking confused.

“There was a man here earlier, an American. He was an international criminal, but he wanted asylum from two people who had held him hostage for three years. I think that one of the two is the sniper who killed Raymond Demonde,” John said grimly, and Lestrade perked up at the name. “Tom, the criminal, said that the sniper and his companion left for an area near the Yard the same day Demonde died. That’s when he escaped. The sniper had killed someone else before then, a victim in New York City, which is why Tom didn’t try to leave until he knew both men were gone for sure.”

“Did he catch any names from his captors?” Lestrade asked.

“Only one, and it was the name of one of Tom’s previous clients. Tom said he was a gunrunner, and didn’t particularly care who he sold his weapons to. He said his captors were only interested in nine of his previous clients, all who were funded by none other than Moriarty,” John said grimly, unconsciously studying Lestrade’s reaction.

“ _Shit,_ ” Lestrade breathed, his eyes widening at the mention of the dead criminal mastermind’s name. “Where is this Tom now?”

“I called the Yard, well, I thought I called the Yard to come pick him up, and a Sergeant Wilkinson came to pick him up and take him back,” John said.

Lestrade grimaced. “As far as I know, I didn’t get any call from this address, but I will double check when I get back,” he said carefully, no doubt remembering it was his own officers who started the eventual slide downhill that led to Sherlock’s death. “I’ll also see if I can contact the New York Police Department and set up a Skype call, just so we can look into their case, assuming Tom is telling the truth and a man was shot in New York. If so, the NYPD should have the case on record. I can tell them that it’s a part of an ongoing investigation here in London.”

“Here’s the other thing. Tom also knew Mycroft Holmes, was afraid of him even. I think we should keep this from him if possible,” John said quietly.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “You do realize how impossible that is, right?” he asked. 

“Is it? I think if we played our cards right, we could do this without his interference. He’s left me alone for several months already,” John said, the idea taking root in his head. “Make that call to the New York Police Department, and let me know when the Skype appointment is, I want to sit in on it as well.” 

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll call, will you be available all day tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes. I go back to the clinic the day after,” John replied. 

“All right, I’ll text once I have the appointment arranged,” Lestrade said, grinning faintly. “I don’t care what Mycroft says, I want to catch this sniper before he decides to kill someone else.”

“Actually, that reminds me. Tom said that the message, ‘One more left’ may have been intended for someone who was definitely going to see it. He just didn’t know who,” John said. 

Lestrade frowned. “A number of people saw the message, it could have been intended for anyone,” he said. Sighing, he said, “Let me find out if we have a Sergeant Wilkinson on duty at the Yard, and I’ll text you tomorrow once I have everything arranged with the NYPD.”

John nodded. “Good night then,” he said after a few moments of silence.

“Good night.”

John stayed at the top of the stairs, watching Lestrade leave before turning back to (finally) head back to bed.

His cane lay forgotten propped up against the wall.


	4. Flaw

_Received [00:12]: Mission accomplished._

_Sent [00:15]: Any problems?_

_Received [00:20]: Police showed up early, left flat in time._

_Sent [00:22]: Anything else?_

_Received [00:24]: Yes. Target knows. All at risk._

_Sent [00:25]: Return immediately._

_Received [00:27]: En route now._

*~*~*~*~*~

John got the promised text around eleven two days later, as he was cleaning up the dirty dishes from the night before. Due to the six-hour time difference between London and New York, the Skype call would have to take place at 18:00 for them, so that it was around noon Eastern Standard Time. It was the only time Gregson could find a free moment to talk about a once closed case; according to Lestrade, Gregson was neck deep in a current case involving a company consistently losing its CEOs to what appeared to be innocent, mundane causes. 

John just shook his head, knowing that Sherlock would have figured it out without too much of a problem. Then again, he’d hate to inflict NYPD with Sherlock Holmes, so maybe it was a good thing that he wasn’t working on that particular case.

But that was how he found himself walking into New Scotland Yard that day, accidentally bumping into a lanky - looking rookie who had his cap pulled down and was shuffling along, staring at the ground. John barely caught the mumbled apology, but the rookie was gone before John could get a better look at his nametag.

When he rounded the corner however, he was so distracted that he walked straight in to Sergeant Sally Donovan.

“Oh, I’m sor-” John cut the apology off once he realized to whom he was speaking.

Sally gave him a tight smile. “Excuse me, sir,” she said with strained politeness before stepping around him.

“Sergeant,” he said just as cordially, but then kept walking, refusing to dwell on their last meeting even though the memories were trying to shove to the forefront of his mind.

He found Lestrade in a closed office with Dimmock as well. Both men looked exhausted, and Dimmock looked grim as he held two manila folders. 

“Sniper struck again earlier this morning,” Lestrade said tiredly when John entered. At John’s puzzled look, Lestrade said, “Our sniper friend who killed Demonde. Matthew Sandler found one of his tenants, a man named Ronald Adair, dead on the living room floor. There was an open window that overlooked a small park that had plenty of trees, and when Dimmock’s team went over the park, they found that someone had been camped in the tree that had the best view of Adair’s apartment. Same situation as last time; no bullet in Adair’s head, except this time, we were able to confirm that the sniper’s friend broke into the apartment to steal a laptop and that a stack of letters or paperwork had been taken from one of the desk drawers. Dust imprints gave it away.”

“Any messages on Adair’s body?” John asked, sitting down.

“Not this time,” Dimmock said. “He was either the last man that the sniper was targeting, or wasn’t even on the hit list until recently. We’re still running Adair’s profiles through the networks, trying to match anything of his up with Demonde’s profile, just to see if there are any connections that we can find.”

“This of course means that Holmes will undoubtedly find out sooner rather than later, but Dimmock, whom I’ve told about that late night visit you had with Williams, has agreed to keep Williams under wraps should Holmes come around asking,” Lestrade said.

“What about the Scotland Yard superintendent? I don’t want you to permanently lose your job,” John said, looking anxiously between Dimmock and Lestrade. He was concerned for Dimmock because while the man managed to avoid most of the media shitstorm that struck just prior to Sherlock’s death, he did consult with Sherlock once or twice as well as Lestrade. Dimmock didn’t deserve to risk the superintendent’s wrath, especially since Mycroft Holmes had specifically asked Lestrade to back off the case. John wouldn’t be too surprised if Holmes had the superintendent in his pocket as well as everyone else.

“Robert Kelley?” Dimmock shook his head. “Granted, he has been monitoring this investigation, but for now, he’s given his approval for Lestrade to be working on it.”

“‘Until the higher powers decide otherwise’,” Lestrade said, putting the sentence in air quotes. “Or so he said. Don’t know exactly who other than his boss he’d be getting his orders from.”

“Mycroft Holmes?” John deadpanned, and Dimmock grimaced while Lestrade cracked a small smile.

“Would you honestly be surprised if that was the case?” he asked.

“No, not really,” John said. He glanced at the open laptop and said, “Will we be talking to Captain Gregson there?”

“Yeah.” Lestrade gestured for him to sit down. “Dimmock is sitting in on this one as well, just so we can also bring up Adair’s case and have all the facts.”

“That’s good,” John said, sitting in the indicated seat as Lestrade shut the door and locked it. “Have you spoken directly with Gregson, or with a secretary?” he asked as Lestrade sat down next to him and Dimmock moved to stand behind the two.

“Directly. Sounded harried, told someone off to the side to leave him alone, called him ‘Holmes’. Nearly had a heart attack,” Lestrade said, shuddering.

“Last time I spoke to Mycroft, he did say he had a large array of cousins, and that one of them does the consulting thing with police as Sherlock did,” John pointed out, and Lestrade looked pained, a ghost of a memory crossing his face. 

“Then I commend him for managing to keep his temper with a Holmes,” Lestrade said as he opened the laptop and started up Skype. He noticed the small blinking icon, and said, “Looks like Gregson is ready.”

NYPD Captain Tobias Gregson turned out to be older than Lestrade, and looking just as tired as John felt. He too was in what appeared to be his office, and there was a darker-skinned man sitting next to him. His eyes kept flickering to someone off screen as his companion adjusted the camera and muttered, “Ready, sir.”

“Detective Inspector, it’s good to finally meet you at last,” Gregson said, his voice crackly with static. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“All good things, I can only hope,” Lestrade replied, looking slightly embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he gestured to John and said, “This is Captain Doctor John Watson, he is working with me on this particular case, and behind me is my colleague Detective Inspector Dimmock. I’m afraid to say that our sniper friend struck again early this morning, and Dimmock was the first to respond to the latest scene.”

“Oh, did he now?” This came from the man with Gregson, who had yet to identify himself.

“This is Detective Marcus Bell, he responded to the scene when the sniper shot down a relative of one of my consultants - yes, I _did_ figure out who he was,” Gregson said, looking up with faint irritation at someone off screen. “Did you honestly think I wasn’t going to follow up on that? Now either be quiet or leave.” Looking back at Lestrade, he said, “Sorry about that. As I was saying, we were able to identify the sniper’s victim here in New York, but are you certain it’s the same killer?”

“I spoke to someone recently, someone who up until a few nights ago had been the sniper’s hostage. Said he saw the sniper’s skills in action in New York City and that the target was killed,” John explained. “The hostage, his name is Thomas Williams, also said that two Englishmen had him prisoner and that the sniper had family in the United States.”

“Which is why I asked you if you had anyone shot by a sniper recently,” Lestrade said. 

Gregson looked thoughtful. “We only had one man die within your specified time frame, and that was a man named Sherrinford Holmes,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “We contacted a cousin of his in London, one Mycroft Holmes, and he had the body transported to London. Bell here was first to respond to the scene.”

“Who called it in?” Dimmock asked, leaning forward.

“A woman named Amy Falsworth, she was jogging in Central Park when she came upon the dead man. Husband, Colin Falsworth, went out after her after an hour passed of no contact and found her in shock still at the scene,” Bell said, leaning forward in his chair. He frowned and said, “Doc, you all right?”

John almost didn’t hear him.

Falsworth. He _definitely_ remembered that name, especially since Mrs. Falsworth jogged by 221B almost every morning since their first meeting all those months ago. He knew she had family in the United States, but then again, she’d never specified where.

“John?” Lestrade was frowning at him. “Are you all right?

“Sorry,” John said after a moment as he collected himself again. “It’s just that I’ve met Amy Falsworth, she and her husband don’t live too far from me.” 

“Mr. Falsworth did say that they were visiting her relatives and that they lived in London. He does interior design work, I’ve seen some of his creations,” Gregson said, eyes flicking briefly up to someone off – screen. 

“What was the cause of death?” Dimmock asked.

“Bullet to the head and back. The mortician who performed the autopsy was one Dr. Mary Harper at St. Mary’s Hospital here in London,” Gregson replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

_Mary Harper_. Where had John heard or at least seen that name before? He shook his head and forced himself to refocus on the case at hand, deciding to figure it out later. Leaning forward, he asked, “Detective Bell, was there ever a bullet in the body?”

There was a moment of silence as Bell and Gregson looked at each other, and then Gregson looked up at someone off – screen before turning back to the camera. “Now that you mention it… we never did find bullets at the scene… and from what I’ve read of Dr. Harper’s coronary report, there weren’t any bullets in the body,” Bell said finally, glancing up at the person off – screen. 

“But we did narrow the shooter to be either British or American, and a rogue sniper at that,” Gregson said, speaking loudly as though to speak over someone else. Frowning, he finally snapped, “Holmes, don’t you have a killer in that company to be hunting down? Get out of here, now.”

There were soft indecipherable whispers from off – screen, but then Gregson visibly relaxed. “Sorry about that, Holmes has been a little unhinged since apparently the sniper victim was a cousin of his,” he said.

“I can only hope that your Holmes is a little more tolerable than mine was,” Lestrade replied without missing a beat. 

Gregson shrugged. “He gets the job done, that’s what I care about, he’s already got a sitter to keep him out of trouble,” he said, reflexively glaring at someone off – screen for another few seconds. “But back to Sherrinford. According to the two Holmeses I talked to, he really had no enemies to speak of –”

“Just so I can keep their names straight, Sherrinford Holmes is _cousin_ to both Mycroft Holmes and the anonymous Holmes you have over there in New York?” Lestrade interrupted, and Gregson nodded.

“For security purposes, the anonymous Holmes would rather I didn’t say his name, but yes, you are correct,” Gregson said. Leaning forward, he said, “So what you’re telling me is that the guy who shot the man over there –”

“Two. There are now two of his victims. Raymond Demonde and Ronald Adair,” Dimmock said. 

Gregson nodded. “So this guy who shot those two also killed Sherrinford. Correct?” he asked, and Lestrade nodded. 

“We’ve also determined that the gunman has an accomplice, because Demonde was struggling with another man when he was shot. A message was left on Demonde, and it said ‘One more left’. We still haven’t figured out for whom the message was intended, but we are working next to figure that out,” Lestrade explained. 

Gregson nodded. “You mentioned a hostage, Thomas Williams. Who was he and why was he valuable?” he asked.

John leaned forward, trying not to remember his failure to keep Williams out of trouble. “He was a gunrunner, sold to anyone who asked, no questions. Apparently two British men approached him three or so years ago asking about nine of his previous clients along with a middleman. These ten individuals were whom the men wanted, and so Williams had been their prisoner for three years as the two hunted them down. There was a point that their travels took them to New York City, where apparently this Sherrinford Holmes was killed instead,” John explained.

“We estimate that only one of the original ten is left at this point, but I don’t think we’re absolutely sure because Ronald Adair, while his body and the crime scene do fit the sniper’s M.O., there were papers and a computer stolen, so he could have easily just been in the way of the two men,” Lestrade said grimly. 

“For whom was the message intended? On Demonde’s body?” Gregson asked.

“We’re not sure,” Lestrade said, glancing at John. “Williams had some theories, but again, we do not have confirmation of who it could be.”  
Gregson sighed. “We don’t have anything other than the photographs from the crime scene of Sherrinford Holmes to go on, I’m afraid that you’re going to be on your own for the most part for this case. I am sorry,” he said, leaning back in his chair. 

“It won’t be a problem. If you could possibly email me the photographs so that we have a third scene to compare our two with, I’d appreciate that much,” Lestrade said. 

“Sounds good. I’ll have Bell email them to you in a couple hours, we have a lead in this current case that we need to look into right now,” Gregson said, waving away another officer that had apparently just walked into the office.

“Very well, I’ll wait for those photographs,” Lestrade said. “Thank you for your time, Captain Gregson.”

“Any time. Let me know if you need anything else,” Gregson said. Nodding respectfully to Lestrade, he said, “If that’s all…”

“Yes it is, thank you. Good bye,” Lestrade said, reaching for the computer keyboard.

“Good bye.”

Then he signed off.

“Well, that went well, or at least I thought so,” Dimmock said finally as Lestrade closed Skype and pulled up his email. “Send me those photos once you get them.”

“Me too, if you don’t mind that is,” John said, hoping that Lestrade would not sense the hidden desperation in his voice. This was the first case that John had ever gotten involved with in three years, and he had forgotten how exhilarating it was. 

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll do that.” Glancing at John, he said, “Do you want –”

“Lestrade.”

John jumped at the cold voice, and then turned around to face the door.

A tall man was standing there, blue eyes narrowed at both Lestrade and Dimmock. He had dark brown hair that was slowly starting to gray, and John could see the stress lines all around his face. Judging from Lestrade and Dimmock’s’ expressions (both pale, one wary, the other fearful), John guessed that this had to be the new chief superintendent.

“Yes sir?” Lestrade asked, calmly standing to attention.

“Let’s talk, you and me. Preferably now,” the man – Robert Kelley – said, jerking his head toward the hall. “Dimmock, I expect you to be back on duty ASAP.”

“Yes, sir.” Dimmock glanced at John and said, “I’ll walk you out.” They both waited until the man and Lestrade had left before John spoke again.

“Was that Kelley?” John asked, glancing at Dimmock.

“Yeah, can’t imagine why he’d be upset with Lestrade though, he’s working on the case like Kelley asked,” Dimmock said as the two men walked toward the exit of New Scotland Yard. “But I’ll make sure those pictures get sent along to you, we can use all the pairs of eyes that we can get on this.”

“All right. And thank you, for including me in this,” John said, and Dimmock nodded.

“Take care, Doctor Watson,” he said. 

John nodded. “Take care, Dimmock.”

Then he left the station.


	5. Clock

~*~*~*~*~*

_“It’s time.”_

~*~*~*~*~*

“It’s over.”

John stared at Lestrade, who looked worn out.  “What?” he finally said once he fully processed the DI’s words.

“The case.  It’s over.  Well, over for me at least.  Kelley wasn’t too happy that I contacted the NYPD, so he pulled me off the case and put Dimmock in charge.  He also managed to intercept the photographs from New York before Dimmock got them, so I don’t have those either,” Lestrade said, running a frustrated hand through his graying hair.  “I tried to ask him why he put me on the case in the first place if he was just going to pull me off right away, but he easily dodged out of answering, just told me to mind my own business.  Then he dismissed me and put Dimmock on the case all in one breath.”

“That’s strange.  Wouldn’t it make sense to coordinate between police departments in order to solve an international case?” John asked, sitting down in his armchair as Lestrade sat down gingerly on the sofa. 

“That’s the thing, there’s a whole set of procedures for cases like this.  Problem is that if this sniper continues on his spree and we’ve completely miscalculated with the whole ‘One more left’ business, either Interpol or the MI6 will step in and take over,” Lestrade said.  “Trust me when I say that dealing with the MI6 is not something I’m in a rush to do again.”

“Mycroft?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lestrade snorted.  “You would think that would be the case.  I don’t know to whom the hell I was talking, but it was a woman, not a man.  So no, it wasn’t Mycroft,” he said, rubbing Gladstone’s belly as the dog rolled over on the blanket that John had put on the sofa to protect it.  “But anyway, between his three victims, the sniper has yet to establish a pattern.  I’m also concerned about his friend, you said that the friend accompanied Williams to the United States?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t specify what the friend did,” John said.

Lestrade nodded.  “Right now, this is how I see it.  The friend does most of the legwork and the sniper keeps him alive.  That fits Demonde’s scene.  Meanwhile, at Ronald Adair’s, the friend again does most of the legwork, and what I’m _guessing_ happened is that Adair either cooperated and was shot in order to keep silence, or was shot to give the friend ease of movement,” he said.

“Put it like that, and it looks to me that the sniper really isn’t the one in charge, his friend is.  Which means it is his friend that we really have to worry about,” John said grimly.

“That or whomever is higher up the chain,” Lestrade agreed.  He hesitated, and then asked, “You don’t think we’re dealing with a Moriarty copycat, do you?”

“God, I hope not.  I really hope not,” John said, mentally suppressing the memories from those last days.  “One was bad enough.”  He frowned as an idea occurred to him.  “Lestrade, we don’t have the photographs, but Gregson did say that Amy Falsworth saw the body, but I know roughly where she lives because I’ve met her before.  We can ask her to recreate the scene as best as she remembers.”

“Are we absolutely sure that it’s the same ‘Amy Falsworth’?

“It’s worth a shot, the stories match up.  She said she has relatives in the United States, Gregson said that she was visiting relatives in the United States.  We can ask, if we’re wrong, we’ll apologize and keep looking,” John said, standing up as he reached for his new jacket.

“Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” Lestrade asked as he stood up as well.

“Her sister called this morning, she’s sick so Mrs. Hudson went to visit her,” John said.  He hesitated, and then impulsively reached for his gun.  “Just in case,” he said, noting Lestrade’s arched eyebrow.

“Right, let’s go.”

John got up from his chair and whistled softly to call Gladstone.  The pup came thundering into the room, happily barreling into John’s legs.  It kept squirming even as John tried to fix the leash onto the collar, but as soon as the leash was clipped on, Gladstone immediately began dragging (or at least trying to) John to the door.  Lestrade chuckled at the display, but got up to follow the two anyway.

The Falsworths thankfully lived near Baker Street, within walking distance.  Lestrade had easily found their information in the New Scotland Yard database through his smart phone, and along with their address, he’d also found an old ASBO order against Colin Falsworth for causing a racket late at night a couple months ago. 

“He explained that he’d been trying to get rid of a teenager that had been repeatedly harassing his wife.  Of course, instead of reporting it to the authorities, he dealt with it himself.  The neighbors said it had sounded like someone was getting murdered, but there was no body at the scene.  Falsworth however did provide a description of the kid, and the case was left alone because no one could find the kid in the records, CCTV cameras or anything of the like,” Lestrade explained as the two men approached the building that the Falsworths lived in.  “Falsworth stuck to his story, didn’t seem too bothered that no one could find the kid.”

“Did he kill him?” John asked.

“The report says that the possibility was explored, but forensics didn’t find anything on the scene to suggest that someone had been murdered there,” Lestrade replied.  “Falsworth also didn’t bother with persisting with the case very much, he made some effort, but not a lot.”

“I don’t know about you, but something seems off about that story,” John said.

“Tell me about it.  I wasn’t on the case at the time, working on something else, but Dimmock said that he and Donovan were working on it, and there just wasn’t evidence of murder, of the kid or anyone else.  It was written off as jumpy neighbors, and Falsworth got his ASBO, end of story,” Lestrade said as the two rounded the corner.

“What was Falsworth like?  I only met his wife,” John said as the two approached the small complex; there was a list of names off to the side, and John wondered if they could perhaps duplicate the trick Sherlock used to get into Van Coon’s flat, just in case they needed to.

“Not very chatty, that’s for sure.  Easily annoyed and trigger-happy, he probably would have socked Sherlock in their first meeting.  Used to serve in the army as a sniper under Colonel Sebastian Moran, Falsworth was apparently shot in the chest – bone and had been forced home in an honorable discharge,” Lestrade said, handing the phone over so that John can read the man’s profile for himself.  “Apparently he went into interior design after that, something about still having a sharp eye for details.”

John studied Falsworth’s profile and information – apparently the Yard had done quite a bit of digging on him during the small murder investigation.  The man looks quiet and unassuming, but the picture was his military ID, and John knew from experience that soldiers had a tendency to look as unthreatening as possible in such photographs… just in case.  Green eyes looked back at John from the photograph, and Falsworth had started to let his dark brown hair grow back by the time of the photograph, which John assumed was probably taken after the discharge, and after the man had recovered from medical care.

“Do you think he’ll be home as well?” he asked, handing the phone back to Lestrade.

“If we’re lucky, no.  If we’re unlucky, then yes, he will be home,” Lestrade said grimly.  “I don’t want to make him angry, I got the impression from Dimmock’s report that he’s very trigger – happy, so I’d rather avoid a shooting match if possible.”

“Got it.”

Gladstone eagerly pulled on his leash as they drew closer to the Falsworths’ door, as though smelling food.  John took that as a good sign that Amy Falsworth would most likely be home already, and gave slack on Gladstone’s leash so the bulldog could lead the way.  He did hold Gladstone back though, to allow Lestrade forward onto the front step.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Lestrade said grimly before raising a hand and knocking sharply on the door.

There was a clatter inside the house, closely followed by brisk footsteps.  The door opened, and Amy Falsworth blinked in surprise to see the two men, and then she smiled to see John.  “John!  How are you?” she asked, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her.  Gladstone seemed to sniff at her, only to growl a few seconds later.

“Good, thank you.  Listen, I was hoping you could help me with something important,” John said, offering a smile in an attempt to reassure her as he gently pulled Gladstone back. 

“What exactly?” she asked, frowning slightly.  She glanced at Lestrade and said, “Who are you?”

“Gregory Lestrade, from Scotland Yard,” Lestrade said, raising his hand as though to calm her.  “We’re just running an investigation, and were hoping that you could answer a few questions.”

Uncertainty and suspicion warred in her eyes, but nonetheless she wordlessly stepped back and opened the door.  “Come in then, my husband is out now, and dinner’s in the oven, so I’m sorry if I have to leave in the middle of your questioning to get that,” she said, gesturing for them to follow her inside. 

“I apologize for inconveniencing you at this time, but there are several people at risk if we don’t catch the attacker soon, which is why I need your full cooperation,” Lestrade said as Amy gestured for the two of them to sit down on the couch in her small living room, John keeping a tighter hold on Gladstone’s leash; something in the house was agitating the dog greatly now.

“What do you mean by ‘at risk’?” Amy asked curiously as she sat down in a rocking chair, folding her hands on her lap.

Lestrade leaned forward and said, “Two people have died in the last week alone, and both were shot.  We recently found out that there was a third victim, in New York City.”

Judging from the slight paling in her face, John knew immediately that she knew exactly what they were talking about.  She confirmed it further when she said, “You spoke to Captain Gregson in New York City.”

“The sniper has killed three people already, and he may be targeting a fourth.  So far, there isn’t a pattern.  We need to stop him as soon as possible,” Lestrade said, leaning forward.  “I just need to know what you know about the man from New York.”

Amy looked uncomfortable.  “It was… it was an extreme shock to see the body there… I usually ran through Central Park every morning, I left around six that day, a little earlier than usual.  I went running, came around the corner, and found the man sprawled all over the pavement.  He… he was wearing a tan jacket, a T-shirt, and jeans… and the blood…” Amy stopped, dropping her head into her palm.  “Oh my God, there was so much blood… it… it…”

“Hang on,” John said, standing up and crossing over the room to kneel down next to her.  “Take it easy, deep breaths, deep breaths.  You can stop now if you want to, I think what you told us was helpful enough.”

“Sorry, it was just a shock to the system that day to see so much blood there, it was all over the ground and I just…” Amy took a few deep, shuddering breaths before she spoke again.  “He’d been shot in the back and in the head…”

“Did Colin ever see him too?” John asked quietly, keeping a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Yes…when I didn’t return within the expected time frame, he came looking for me,” she replied quietly.

“Do you think he’d be willing to answer a few of our questions for us?” John asked.

She frowned at him.  “Like what?”

“Who the victim was, for starters,” Lestrade said before John could speak.

“Oh, the victim?  I heard later that it was someone named Sherrinford Holmes,” Amy admitted quietly.  “Colin told me, he’d heard it from one of the police officers in St. Mary’s, in New York.”

“All right, thank you.  Now where is Colin?  I’d like to talk to him too about this,” Lestrade said patiently.

“He went to St. Bart’s to speak with a doctor there,” Amy said, her eyes flickering anxiously between the two men. 

“Very well, thank you for your time,” Lestrade said, standing up and handing Gladstone’s leash back to John.  John started to get up when Gladstone unexpectedly growled at Amy, who paled even further and even shrank away from Gladstone a bit.

“Sorry about that.  Gladstone, _behave_ ,” John said, gently tugging the leash until Gladstone reluctantly followed John. 

“It’s all right, dogs are usually considered to be good judges of character.  Present company considering,” she replied in a soft tone, looking down at her lap and hiding her expression from John.

John paused; he still remembered exactly where he heard those exact words before.  “Amy… is there something else about the case that we should know?” he asked, causing Lestrade to pause in his tracks.

Before she could reply however, there was a beeping from the stove in the kitchen.  “I’m sorry, that’s dinner,” she said, quickly and quietly getting up from her rocking chair and heading to the kitchen.  “Could you show yourselves out?” she asked, pausing to glance over her hunched shoulders.  John felt a small twinge of guilt for causing her anxiety, but shrugged it off. 

“Come on John, we can always come back,” Lestrade said from the doorway. 

John hesitated, and then said, “Good day, Mrs. Falsworth, thank you for your time.”  Then he turned and followed Lestrade out the door, Gladstone leading the way.

Amy Falsworth didn’t say anything; just leaned against the threshold between the kitchen and hall and watched the two of them leave.  Then she pulled out her phone and sent a two – word text, hoping to herself that the good doctor would have it in his heart to forgive her.

~*~*~*~*~*

“Mind explaining what that last remark was about?  Before she told us to leave?” Lestrade asked as the cab drew closer to St. Bart’s.

“Which one?” John asked absently as he stared out the window.

“The one about if she knew there was something about the case we should know?” Lestrade asked.  “Right after Gladstone growled at her.”

“She said to me that ‘dogs were good judges of character, present company considering’,” John said, turning to look at the detective.  “In any other context, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.  But the thing is, when the two fake police officers arrived to take Thomas away, the woman, Sergeant Wilkinson, said the exact same thing to me.  Now that I think about it, I think her speech might have been off a little…”

“In what way?” Lestrade asked, frowning.

John felt like smacking his forehead when it clicked.  “Like she was used to speaking with a different accent, and had been forcing herself to speak in an unfamiliar manner.”  Glancing at Lestrade, he said, “It’s not uncommon at all for Americans to be able to accurately duplicate a British accent, and vice versa.  We just hear about the obnoxious ones because those make for better humor stories.”

Lestrade swore softly when he realized what John was getting at.  “So Amy was in on it.”

“She could be.  She at least very well knows the woman who said the first line to me,” John said grimly.  “Which means, if Colin is in fact at St. Bart’s…”

“We could be looking at a firefight or otherwise some form of violent resistance.  Wonderful,” Lestrade said, lowering a hand to the side holster to make sure his gun was still there.  “You still have yours?” he asked, and John nodded. 

“Hopefully, it won’t come down to a fight…” John’s voice trailed off when another puzzle piece clicked into place.  “Lestrade, do you remember when we were talking to Gregson, he mentioned that there was a mortician in New York named ‘Mary Harper’.  I just remembered where I’d heard of the name before.”

“Where?” Lestrade asked.

“There was a box in the lab that day, when Molly was examining Demonde.  I knocked it over when she stepped out, and it was a bunch of lab coats.  Not much I know, but I was putting it all back when I saw one that had ‘Mary Harper’ embroidered on the top with St. Mary’s logo.  I think that there’s a doctor in on this too, the one who was probably supposed to receive the ‘One more left’ message.  Thomas figured that it was meant for a mortician as well,” John said, a few more pieces falling into place.  “It just so happened that Molly was the one going through, and when she put it in the autopsy report, the intended message receiver would get it and know that Demonde was dead.”

“So a doctor, Mrs. Falsworth, and _maybe_ Mr. Falsworth as well are all in on it?” Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow as the cab pulled up to the curb.

“Plus the sniper and whoever his friend is, assuming that one of the aforementioned three isn’t the friend,” John said, reaching for his wallet to pay the cabbie, but Lestrade beat him to it.  Glancing at St. Bart’s as he got out, John added, “We could very well be walking into a trap.”

“We’ll spring it then,” Lestrade said, leaving no room in his tone for argument.  He pulled his phone out and sent a text before stuffing it back into his pocket.  “I just contacted Dimmock to start looking for us if he doesn’t hear back from me in an hour.”

“Good to know that there’ll be some form of backup,” John said almost quietly as he stared up at the rooftop, where he’d last seen Sherlock Holmes alive.  It seemed surreal; to stand there in the slow snowfall as John’s memory painted an image of a dark figure at the top, arms widespread before he –

“John.”

John jumped at the sound of his name, and then nodded gratefully to Lestrade.  “Let’s go then,” he said.  “We should find Molly first, tell her to stay away just in case.  The theory about the insider makes sense, especially since Amy did tell us that her husband was visiting a doctor here.”  Glancing at Lestrade, he said, “Which reminds me, why did you ask her for the victim’s name if Gregson told us already?”

“Just checking her story,” Lestrade replied as he pushed the hospital doors open.

For a weekend evening, the halls were as quiet as John expected them to be, with minimal staff on duty, something he was quite grateful for since there wouldn’t be anyone to yell at him for having a dog.  The two men and Gladstone made their way towards the stairs that lead down to the morgue, stopping long enough for John to find and knock on Molly’s office door.  When there was no response, he tried the handle, which proved to be locked.

“She’s not here,” John said, trying to stamp down the growing feeling of anxiety.

“I don’t know about you, but I think she might be the next on the sniper’s hit list if we’re not fast enough,” Lestrade said, pulling his gun out and flicking off the safety as the two began rushing down the hall to the examination labs. 

“The question is what could she have possibly done to aggravate the sniper?” John asked, pulling his gun out when he saw that the last lab in the hall was bright inside.  His sinking feeling only grew when he silently acknowledged to himself that chances were very good that it wasn’t Molly inside.

“Maybe we can ask him once we get inside,” Lestrade said before kicking the door open and charging in with his gun out, John close behind.

The lab was lit, but empty.

John looked around, and noted the body on the examination table in the center of the lab; still in the bag but zipped down.  The identification tag on the zipper read ‘RONALD ADAIR’ in neat block print, and the lab was otherwise free of clutter.  John briefly jumped when the lab door slammed closed again, turning to check just to alleviate the strengthening feeling of unease.  When he didn’t see anything or anyone, he just kept his gun out and turned back to scan over the rest of the lab.  Gladstone meanwhile had taken to tugging his leash into a certain direction, growling and bristling.  Frowning, and trusting Gladstone’s instincts, John turned in the same direction.

“I’m not a sadist, you know.”

The soft voice startled John, and he looked up sharply from Gladstone just as Lestrade jumped and pointed the gun in the same direction.  A man was standing on the other side of the examination table with Adair’s body, calm green eyes flickering between the two guns pointed in his direction before taking note of the dog on the ground.  The newcomer was wearing worn and slightly baggy clothing, and he looked like he hadn’t decent sleep in months.  John also noted that he was holding one arm, his right, close to his side in a protective manner.  Even if he hadn’t seen the photograph beforehand, John somehow knew that this was Colin Falsworth.

“I mean, I’m not the type of gunman who likes to examine his kill after the deed’s been done,” Falsworth continued, still looking at Adair.  “Problem is that the police arrived too fast for all the bullets to be removed from the corpse, and I didn’t know who was going to perform the autopsy.”

“Dr. Molly Hooper, where is she?” Lestrade said coldly.

Falsworth chuckled softly.  “Safe, she’s safe now.  Problem _there_ was that in the confusion of the move, she didn’t get a chance to examine Adair.  More work for me in the end,” he said, finally reaching over and gingerly zipping the body bag up again, exposing what looked like a white cast underneath the sleeve.

Lestrade saw it too.  “Bad fall?” he asked.

“Well, like I said, police arrived too fast.  Fell out of a goddamn tree, I haven’t done that since I was fourteen,” Falsworth replied.  “Broke my best rifle in the process too, still working on the repairs.”

“Is that why you haven’t killed anyone else yet?” John asked calmly, briefly checking to make sure the safety was off.

“That and my preferred target went underground.  He saw what I was doing, tried to retreat and pull the remaining of his assets out with him.  I got to his last one before he could, but then I realized that a great many of _my_ assets were still exposed.  Been slowly pulling each one off the board completely or putting them under some kind of protection.  Which, by the way, is useless since apparently mine move around a lot more than the target’s does,” Falsworth replied mildly.  “Probably why his got picked off faster than mine.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” John said.  “You killed Holmes, Demonde, and Adair, possibly Hooper as well.  You do realize that your wife is in danger now, right?  Once the police take custody of her, they have collateral to ensure your cooperation.”

To his cold shock, Falsworth only laughed in response.  “Let’s set the record straight, shall we?” he said, fixing his jacket.  “In that list, I only killed Demonde and Adair.  Hooper is safe, and since when was the last time you saw a Holmes die?”

“Three years ago, one jumped off the roof of this very hospital,” John replied, surprised at the steadiness in his voice.  “I would know because I was the one who buried him.”

Falsworth seemed to mull over this for a few moments.  Then he said, “Want to know something interesting that I learned while serving under Colonel Moran in Afghanistan?”

John felt Lestrade tense next to him.  “And what would that be?” John asked.

“Moran taught me to always double – tap my victims.  You never know when you’re dealing with a slippery victim or not, so to be absolutely sure, you kill them twice.  Usually the second time they’re not moving, so they’re easier to hit,” Falsworth said, backing up so that he could comfortably lean against the examination table behind him.  “If you haven’t figured out already, the Holmeses in general are very, very slippery victims.”

“Yeah, I sort of guessed that already,” Lestrade said half – sarcastically.  John noticed that Gladstone was now looking torn between Falsworth and something John couldn’t see.  “Your point?” Lestrade asked.

“So I ask again, when was the last time you saw a Holmes truly die?  New York?  Oh, wait, that’s right, you were pulled off this case in general before you could get the photographs from New York,” Falsworth said, looking too pleased with himself. 

“You do realize you traumatized your own wife in New York, right?  She’s still frightened as it is,” John said, remembering Amy’s near panic attack.

“Yeah, she still hasn’t forgiven me for that,” Falsworth said, grimacing at the memory.  “It was a little awkward for us both to pretend that there was nothing wrong between us at her parents’ house.”

“How did she find out that it was you who killed that man?” John asked.

“I told her.  It suddenly got too risky for me to be seen going out and about, so I needed to bring one more person into the little network.  How else do you think I got Williams back after the little snitch escaped?” Falsworth asked, arching an eyebrow.  “I was worried that her accent would give her away, she was so stressed out about the whole performance.”

John wondered why Falsworth was comfortable with telling them all of this, and then he realized; Falsworth was confident that the two of them weren’t going to walk away after all of this.  Was he stalling now, waiting for his accomplice to show up?  If so, which one was going to come, his friend or the doctor, both or were they one and the same?  It would make sense, seeing as the doctor could easily clear everything up before the autopsies.  “Why are you doing this?” John finally asked.

Something flickered in Falsworth’s eyes.  “I was given orders at the start of this venture,” he said finally, “And I plan to follow them through to the end.”

John was torn now as well; as much as he wanted to be ready for the accomplice’s arrival, he also had so many questions for Falsworth; the man was being deliberately vague and he knew it.  “Did you work for Moriarty?” he asked, looking back at Falsworth.

“No.  Never even heard of the man until Holmes jumped off the rooftop,” Falsworth replied.  “But I have dedicated the last three years of my life to erasing what was left of him and his legacy,” he said with such bluntness that it caught John off guard.

“Then whom are you working for?” Lestrade demanded.

Falsworth snorted.  “Even I don’t know that.  I don’t get paid to do what I’m doing, not since I decided to go M.I.A. on my employer,” he said.  He tilted his head as though anticipating John’s next question and said, “I made that decision in New York, quite recently actually.”

“Who is the last victim?  The ‘one more left’?” Lestrade asked.

“Doesn’t matter, you won’t find him anyway,” Falsworth said, slowly straightening up, only pausing briefly when Gladstone snarled.  “One more thing though, I do have a schedule to keep,” he said.

John tensed; this was it.  “What’s that?” he asked, tensing as he prepared to lunge at the threat that was slowly creeping up behind him; Gladstone was no longer bothering with Falsworth and was snarling at the figure behind John.

“One of my favorite quotes, it helps me sleep at night.  ‘To err is human: forgive, divine’.  I figure if I forgive myself, I can move on.  I’m not expecting forgiveness from Amy once this is over, I have put her through more than she can really handle, but it’s just something to keep in mind, Doctor Watson,” he said, tilting his head to look past the two of them.  “Wouldn’t you say so?”

John moved at the same time the attacker did.

Easily slipping the leash off of his wrist, John ducked the intended blow to the head right as Gladstone lunged for the accomplice.  Lestrade fired at Falsworth, who immediately dropped to the ground.  The bullet ricocheted off the wall anyway and Falsworth swore as it hit him in the side.  John meanwhile turned in time to see a ‘doctor’ completely covered in scrubs gracefully dodge Gladstone before moving toward John again.  John tried to use a technique that he’d learned from his days with Sherlock, one that he’d seen his friend use, but the accomplice easily dodged the blow and used his advantage in height to step around John and wrap an arm around John’s neck.  John fought his damndest, panic settling in as he lost track of both Gladstone and Lestrade, but the accomplice knew what he was doing; it took only a few seconds for unconsciousness to start creeping into the edges of John’s vision.

_This is it._

For some reason, John felt calm staring death in the face this time.  As his shoulder and leg screamed in protest as the doctor began lowering him to the ground, barely conscious, John ceased his struggles, hoping that Gladstone would be able to hurt the doctor enough to cause serious damage and slow the killer down long enough for the police to catch up to them.

“Colin, are you all right?” he faintly heard a deep, semi – familiar voice ask above him as the darkness continued creeping into his vision.  It was a voice that tugged at the very edges of his memory, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Just a shot… I’ll live… clock’s still running though,” came Falsworth’s response.  “I’ll get the dog since you have issues with it.”

“I do not have issues with it,” the accomplice said irritably.

“Says the guy who…” Falsworth’s voice faded away completely as John finally succumbed to unconsciousness.


	6. Hostage

Mere hours after Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s, someone had collected John off the street and brought him into the very hospital that also had Sherlock’s body.  The next few days passed in something of a numb blur as John faced the realization that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes was truly dead and wasn’t coming back.  That this wasn’t some magic trick or stupid experiment for a case and Sherlock was going to come waltzing through the front door so that John could punch him for even considering the idea.

Then the rawness of the situation would hit John again, leaving the doctor gasping for breath.

Sherlock wasn’t coming back.

Sherlock was coming back.

Sherlock wasn’t coming back.

John could never make up his mind in the early weeks.

* * *

_“John?”_

His head hurt.

He couldn’t remember the last time his head hurt this much.

_“John?”_

_“Doc?”_

He didn’t recognize the second voice floating in the murky fog in his head.  The first one had to be Lestrade, he was the last friendly person John had seen before Falsworth and his accomplice had attacked.  He hoped Molly was safe, wherever she was.  But he’d have to look for her after he went to the police to report in _both_ Falsworths… he couldn’t remember if Falsworth ever said if he coerced his wife into the whole mess.  If he did, she could still save herself…

But then again, she probably sent Lestrade and John to St. Bart’s well aware of her husband’s intent.

_“JOHN?”_

John jerked awake, and then jumped to find Lestrade’s face right in front of his own.  “Christ, what…what’s going on?” he stammered out, looking around wildly at his surroundings.  The two men were in what looked like an upscale flat; John could see the skyscrapers of London outside the window, through the cracks of the barely open shades, and the interior was extremely plush and either an off – white or cream color.  John honestly had no other words for the flat.  “Where are we?” he asked, looking at Lestrade.

Lestrade sighed.  “Honestly?  I don’t know.  Woke up with a splitting headache lying here on the floor next to you, and according to the American joker over here, we’re hostages now.”  Glancing around the apartment, he added, “This… this is the most unusual of a hostage situation I’ve ever been in, you and I aren’t tied up for starters.”

“That’s because the leader actually _likes_ you two,” a familiar voice snapped from the corner.  Blinking, John turned his head and to his surprise, saw Thomas Williams sitting in the corner.  Someone had done quite a job of tying him up; there was silver duct tape around his torso and ankles, rendering him completely immobile.  John noted that Tom was still wearing the same clothes that he’d been wearing while at 221B.  “They’re just keeping me alive before they throw me to the sharks,” he groused as John gingerly sat up. 

“Where’s Gladstone?” John asked, looking over at Lestrade, who sighed.

“Sleeping.  While you were fighting the accomplice, Falsworth somehow got a hold of two tranquilizers, one of which he used on me.  The other he used on the dog,” he replied, nodding toward a snoring Gladstone.  The dog was lying on its back, legs curled as it drooled on the otherwise spotless carpet.  “I managed to hang on to consciousness a little longer, they were going to get Molly to check us both over.”

“She did.  You two were just out cold for the entire thing,” Tom supplied from his corner.  Glancing at Lestrade, he said, “You woke up five minutes after Sniper left.”

“ ‘Sniper’ has a name, as it turns out,” John said, pulling himself up into a sitting position to better examine the flat they were all in.  It was one that he would have pegged Mycroft Holmes owning, but at the same time, the starkness of the room indicated that no one had really lived there in a while.  “The name is Colin Falsworth, ring any bells?” he asked, glancing at Tom, who shook his head.

“Means nothing to –” his voice died as his eyes widened, something occurring to him.  “Falsworth.  It was a Mrs. Falsworth that talked to the New York cops after the other guy died…”

“Yeah, we know.  The victim was Sherrinford Holmes, we talked to the New York police about it,” John said wearily. 

Tom nodded, but then paused.  “Is Sherrinford related to Mycroft?” he asked.

“Cousins,” John said, rubbing the back of his head.  Despite the rough manner in which he had been put under, he was feeling a bit better now.  “Any other names or information coming to mind?” he asked Tom, who shook his head. 

“Nope.  Just that the name ‘Holmes’ got thrown around a lot in the three years before I was taken hostage, one of the nice things about the underworld is that there’s a bulletin of people to avoid at all costs.  Both Holmeses made it on,” Tom said, shrugging as best he could with tape pinning his arms to his side.  Tilting his head, he asked, “You sure ‘Sherrinford Holmes’ is dead?  I mean, Sni-, er, Falsworth, has proved to me at least once that he can miss when he stands to gain something by it.”

“Well, we never saw any photos proving otherwise,” Lestrade said, slowly standing up only to grimace and sit back down.  “Muscles cramped,” he said by way of explanation.

“Yeah, that’s what he does when he doesn’t want you bolting off on him quite yet.  Maybe you’ll get to meet Leader tonight too, he comes and goes every so often,” Tom said, stretching briefly before settling down again.

“What would happen if I untied you?” John suddenly asked, eyeing the tape.

“I’d escape.  Go to the police if you wanted,” Tom said, shifting again.  “I’ve been tied up like this ever since I escaped the first time.  Those ‘cops’ by the way?  Turned out to be Falsworth and his wife.  Then again, it wasn’t your fault since she duped you too.”

“Duped me twice, so it seems,” John said, remembering the last time he saw her as he and Lestrade had left the apartment.

“Yeah, I had this whole list of appropriate names to call her once I found out that she and Falsworth tricked me into that cop car,” Tom said grumpily, “But Falsworth didn’t like it when I started insulting her, and threatened to cut my tongue out.”  Shrugging, he added, “Then again, he threatens bodily harm to me every time I cough.  He just really, really _hates_ me.”

“Tom, are you familiar with the name of ‘Henry Sigerson’?  If so, who is he?” John asked, accepting Lestrade’s help in sitting up. 

“Sigerson?  Yeah, I remember what it is.  Took me a little while to think about it since the last time you mentioned it, and since Falsworth leaves me tied up for hours on end, I have plenty of time to think about it.  But right.  Henry Sigerson.  It was just an alias that Leader used while hanging out at that hospital in New York, that St. Mary’s place.  I’m guessing if you know the name, it means he still uses it,” Tom said, shrugging.

“Sigerson… that was Molly’s assistant, wasn’t it?” Lestrade asked.  “The extremely skittish one?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” John said, heaving a sigh.  “No doubt he was also the message receiver as well, it makes sense.  He was in the perfect position as the intern, no one would have suspected him.”

“Molly needs to run better background checks on some of these people,” Lestrade said wearily.  “First Moriarty, now Sigerson.”

“Yeah, but Sigerson isn’t his real name.  He’s actually some government lackey, or at least that’s the impression I got from his interactions with Falsworth.  The two of them talked about Mycroft Holmes for a while,” Tom said, making himself comfortable against the wall.  Tilting his head, he added, “That ended recently though, after Falsworth shot the other guy in New York.”  Sighing, he added, “New York’s mostly a hazy memory for me though, I just remember the leader being pissed as hell at one point because he was nearly killed and someone he knew in London almost kicked the bucket too.  Kept coordinating with someone in the family too, told Falsworth that he had a specific spot in the city in mind because he needed someone in the New York Police Department to see the results of his little show.”

“Who was this person in London?” Lestrade asked, and John knew that the detective inspector was already running through previous cases in his head.

“Dunno, but the leader was _furious_ about it, like, he even called up Mycroft Holmes and had a shouting match with him over the phone.  Turns out he found out about it through the Internet, through a blogging site,” Tom said, shrugging.  “Next thing I know, Leader disappears two weeks later, Falsworth leaves after him, Falsworth comes back hours later looking strangely traumatized, and he’s got blood all down his front.  Leader comes back that night, looking drained, and the two of them have their first civilized conversation with me because they’re too damn tired to deal with me.”

“But they never said anything about one Sherrinford Holmes?” Lestrade asked.

“No- wait, yes.  They mentioned that one of the Leader’s older cousins, a Sherrinford, was going to murder Leader and another one of Leader’s cousins for the stunt the three of them pulled earlier that day.  Yeah, that’s the other place I heard the name.”  Tom sighed, and then said, “Sorry, that’s all I remember, Falsworth kept me drugged a lot during those couple of days.”

“Do you know where we are in London?” John asked.  If it was somewhere familiar, then chances were good that once he and Lestrade escaped, they could easily disappear into the city again. 

“No.  I ain’t no Londoner, remember?” Tom replied, purposefully mangling the English and overemphasizing his American drawl as though to pointedly remind them that he wasn’t from England.  “All I know is that the flat technically belongs to Falsworth’s former employer, but the employer, for some reason or another, doesn’t exactly know that we’re all here.”

“And who did Falsworth work for?” John pressed.

He instantly regretted asking once Tom told him.

“Mycroft Holmes.  Like I said, both guys know Mycroft Holmes.  But that all changed after New York, Falsworth said something about…” Tom’s voice trailed off as he turned an unhealthy shade of white, his eyes staring fixedly behind the door.

Tensing, John turned.

Colin Falsworth was standing in the doorway, green eyes narrowed at a trembling Tom.  “The American C.I.A. wasn’t lying when they said you were a chatterbox,” he said finally, and it was then that John noticed that the sniper was completely drenched and shivering slightly in dark clothing.  The right arm, once in a cast, was pressed close to his side and the bandages were already unraveling from the water and other signs of damage. 

Tom could only manage a squeak.

Glancing at Lestrade, who had started to stand up, Falsworth said, “Please sit down.  The drugs in your system are enough to keep you woozy if you move too fast, but remain safely conscious.  Please don’t hurt yourself.”

“Why did you take us hostage?” John snapped. 

Falsworth sighed.  “It was never supposed to be _both_ of you, it was only supposed to be the doctor,” he said, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe.  “Detective Inspector, you were _supposed_ to stay at Scotland Yard.  When you left, we had to… readjust.”

“Don’t tell me you have a goon at the Yard,” Lestrade snapped.

Falsworth smiled.  “He’s too high out of reach for you, so I wouldn’t waste brainpower or any other kind of energy over it,” he replied.  He started to move, but accidentally jarred his arm against the frame, earning a soft hiss of pain.  “As for you, Williams, you really are trying to get me killed, aren’t you?” he said, turning to face a quivering Tom.  “That contact of yours that you claimed knew the target?  He was a mole from the MI6.”

Tom looked mildly surprised.  “Really?  That explains the high grade gear he offered to trade with the last time I saw him,” he said thoughtfully, tilting his head as he ran through the memories.  “No doubt he was trying to arrest me again…”

“Watch it, they offered me an exchange; medical care for you.  Told them I’d sleep on it, but now that I think about it, I really don’t have a reason to keep you around, do I?” Falsworth said, looking thoughtful.

“Your boss says you can’t get rid of me,” Tom pointed out.

“Yeah, well, that was before you escaped and blabbed to the doctor and the police.  That was the only reason I can think of to keep you around anyway,” Falsworth said, shrugging before he flinched; his arm was causing him pain.  “Unfortunately though, you’re right, and I can’t kill you quite yet.  But enough of that.”  Without another word he swept out of the room and into the hall, closing the door behind him.

“He does that a lot.  The threatening and disappearing routine that is.  His life’s ambition is apparently to see me gone, so I’m hoping to be long gone by the time you all wrap this up,” Tom said amiably, the color steadily returning to his face.

“Do you think escape is a possibility?” Lestrade asked, keeping his voice low.

“If so, we’d have to do it before his friend returns.  Take advantage of the fact that Falsworth’s arm will keep him from being able to get a good hit in,” John replied just as quietly. 

“Do you think that now would be a good time to get Mycroft Holmes in?” Lestrade asked.

John nodded.  “Or at least call him out on this, you heard what Tom said about Falsworth working for Mycroft.  Honestly, I’m not that surprised that Mycroft is involved somehow right now.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed, jumping slightly when Gladstone snuffled and began moving.  Leaning back slightly, he pulled the dog closer to the two of them.  John glanced at Tom, who was humming to himself and rocking in place slightly. 

“Tom?” John asked, noting the other man’s pale expression.  “Tom,” he repeated when he got nothing but a faint whimper.

“Leader’s coming back tonight.  I can’t think of any other reason why Falsworth would be this agitated,” Tom said finally, eyes flickering over to the closed front door.

“What makes you say that he’s agitated?” Lestrade asked.

From somewhere down the hall, they heard a _thunk_ and a low curse.

“He only swears when he’s pissed, agitated, or worried,” Tom said, watching Gladstone now as the dog finally rolled over and managed to crawl over to John, pushing a cold wet nose underneath John’s jumper as John rubbed its back.  “And the Leader doesn’t like dogs very much, that one tried to take a chunk out of his leg.”

“Now I’m wishing I stayed conscious for that fight,” John said.

“Well, that’s what I guessed anyway, I mean, I wasn’t there for the fight, but Leader came stumbling in with a bleeding leg and wouldn’t get within five feet of that dog, even while it was unconscious.  Then a girl came in, stitched Leader up, and the two left less than fifteen minutes later.  Please don’t ask me for names, they’re always very careful when using names around me,” Tom said, tilting his head.  “If you do get out, can I come too?”

“Yes.  As much as you don’t like Mycroft Holmes, you will be a valuable witness so we’ll need you to come with us.  We can try to keep you from getting arrested on the basis that you’re helping to bring international criminals in,” John offered.

“Don’t know how much of a pull we’ll have in that sort of decision, but we can try,” Lestrade amended, leaning over to rub Gladstone’s belly.  Lowering his voice, he added, “We’ll have to fake still being out of it because of the tranquilizers.  Falsworth won’t get close to us, not when he knows very well that we can easily overpower him since he’s injured.”

“And then fake sleeping tonight to lull any accomplices into a false sense of security,” John agreed.  “It sounds like Falsworth’s companion isn’t exactly in top fighting shape either.”  Glancing at Tom, he asked, “Do you remember which leg it is that Gladstone bit?”

“No, I just remember that there was a lot of blood,” Tom replied serenely; John briefly wondered if Tom was so used to this situation that he wasn’t quite sane anymore or if he’d been a little crazy even before he got attacked.

“All right then,” Lestrade said, scooting closer to Tom and leaning forward, John quietly joining him a few moments later.  “I got it.  It’s not much of a plan just yet, but I think we can make something out of it.”


	7. Plans

“Change of plans.  Move the schedule, move Rat.” 

* * *

“Are you going to kill us?”

Falsworth frowned, meeting John’s steady gaze.  “Of course not.  That would completely defeat the purpose of me going through the trouble to kidnap the two of you,” he said before reverting his attention back to the television.  He and John were in separate armchairs in the living room, while Lestrade feigned inability to stand. This proved to the two men that Falsworth was still quite unaware of the fact that Lestrade and John hadn’t actually eaten the lunch provided; (John dared not trust this man despite apparent good intentions, and knew that the best time for Falsworth to re-drug them would be during their meals.  Tom had eaten his almost right away; he wasn’t afraid of any drugging from Falsworth because he was still taped up). 

It had been hours since John had woken up, yet Falsworth had yet to actually do anything.  Although John did suspect that the broken arm played a factor, he couldn’t help but be wary that there could be another factor in Falsworth’s decision to remain with the three prisoners.  Now that he had them, he seemed disinterested in doing anything else except sitting in front of the television, watching re-runs of Doctor Who.

“Are you going to tell us why you kidnapped us?” John finally asked, rubbing Gladstone’s ears as the dog stretched out in its nap on his lap.

“Not with the talker here.  Later.  Maybe,” Falsworth replied without looking away from the screen.  “If I feel like it.”

“You mean if the boss – man feels like it,” Tom grumbled from his corner, but under his breath, but Falsworth ignored him.

That was the only problem with Lestrade’s escape plan.  Tom was supposed to annoy Falsworth enough to drive the sniper from the room, maybe even the flat, in frustration.  That would give the other two men enough time to cut Tom’s tape so that he could easily break it on his own when it came time for the escape.  They were also supposed to do some reconnaissance of the surrounding neighborhood from the windows.  Tom had been needling Falsworth for almost two hours now, but the sniper remained stubbornly within earshot of his prisoners. 

Once Falsworth had moved into the living room to watch the telly, John knew they were in for the long haul just to fix this snarl.

“How is it that Ten and Eleven manage multiple series, but we only get Nine for one?” Falsworth suddenly asked, frowning at the screen as the final episode of the first series ended. 

“Eccleston only agreed to do one series, that’s why,” John replied, glancing at Lestrade, who was still bewildered over the fact that they were discussing Doctor Who as though it was just another sunny afternoon in London.

Falsworth made a face.  “BBC’s always annoyed me.  If it’s not this show, it’s that other one, the modern adaptation of those books by Arthur Conan Doyle.”  He glanced at John and said, “When I was in New York, I found out that the Americans have their own modern adaptation.  Amy loves it, so I never argue with her over it.”

“Never argue with the wife,” Lestrade said, and Falsworth nodded sagely.

“Amen to that,” he said right as the television screen suddenly went blank for a moment before going to a news alert.  “And what is this?  If they’ve found you’re missing, Detective Inspector, that is going to be a little troublesome…” he said, frowning as the anchor came on screen.  He reached for the nearby remote.

“And whose fault would _that_ be?” Lestrade muttered back.

The anchor looked grim, which John never took as a good sign.  “ – _and it appears that even in death, Sherlock Holmes can influence current events.”_

Falsworth made a choked sound in his throat as John’s attention snapped back to the television screen; it was the first time since the Fall that Sherlock’s name had reappeared in the media in three years.  For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, but then he forced himself to calm down and figure out what was going on _now_.

 _“Earlier today, American officials received an anonymous tip that linked the deaths of five individuals, all from the United Kingdom.  Furthermore, the French government was able to confirm three more unidentified bodies as part of the same link, also acting on an anonymous tip from the same caller.  The caller had identified himself as ‘Richard Brooke’, a pseudonym from the same news story that brought about Sherlock Holmes’s fall from grace.  However, it is confirmed that it is not the same individual who told his story in_ The Sun _, as that man died the same day Holmes did.”_

“It was a literal fall from grace too,” Falsworth muttered under his breath, ignoring John’s glare.  Frowning, he muttered, “The numbers are off though…”

“ _According to authorities, the caller identified Sherlock Holmes as a major player in the deaths of nine individuals, the last being found dead here in the United Kingdom, one Ronald Adair who was a federal employee working under Mycroft Holmes, the older brother of Sherlock Holmes.”_

“Right, forgot about him,” Falsworth said under his breath even as he pulled his phone out and began dialing a number that John couldn’t see.

“ _While this is not a situation that requires tightening of security measures, authorities ask that citizens exercise a little more caution than usual.  The – ”_

“And that’s enough from you,” Falsworth grumbled, turning the television off as he put his phone up to his ear.  “The numbers are about to give us away… damn… Mycroft’s not stupid, he can count… now I want to hear from _you,”_ he muttered while tapping the side of his phone impatiently with a forefinger.  Then he abruptly stood up and left the room without another word, presumably listening to the person on the other end.

 “This is where Hare-brained Scheme #21 comes into effect,” Tom muttered as soon as Falsworth was out of sight.  “What’s going to happen now is Falsworth is going to talk with Leader, Leader’s going to have another insane plan, Falsworth is going to grumble and complain about it, but he’s going to go along with it in the end.  He always does.” To Lestrade, he whispered, “If we’re going to do anything, tonight’s the night.”

“We still haven’t done reconnaissance or anything like that,” Lestrade muttered, glancing around the room.

“Improvise,” Tom said before falling silent as Falsworth suddenly reappeared.

“If this fails, I’m going to murder you.  Let’s see you walk away from _that_ ,” Falsworth warned before hanging up.

“That would be Death Threat #389,” Tom said pleasantly as Falsworth put his phone down on the side table.

“You’ve been counting?” John said, looking impressed.

“Hey, I had nothing else better to do.”

“Stay there,” Falsworth snapped, leaning down and nearly throwing his phone onto the nearest table.

“Where else am I gonna go?” Tom yelled, only to squeak and cower when Falsworth turned around and started to advance threateningly on him before turning on his heel and leaving the room altogether.  “What is he gonna do?” he asked, turning to John, who could only shake his head. 

“I don’t know, you’ve known him longer than me,” John reminded him.

Falsworth returned a few minutes later, a silver earpiece visible in his right ear.  Wordlessly, he walked over to Tom, knelt down, and then hauled the American up to his feet, propping him up against the wall.  Stepping back, he glanced at John and said, “Doctor, if you would be so kind as to stand next to him?”

“Why?” John asked, frowning as he tensed, waiting for a fight.

Falsworth sighed.  “I just want to compare your heights.  Stand next to him, it could save his life.”

John glanced at Tom before moving to stand where Falsworth indicated as the sniper leaned over to retrieve his phone.  There was silence as Falsworth snapped the photograph before sending it along.  “Now you may sit down, Doctor,” he said, moving aside so that John could sit down next to Lestrade again.  Falsworth meanwhile moved back to stand in front of Tom.

“Thomas Williams, the day in which I get rid of you has finally arrived.  Unfortunately, I’m not in charge of your fate, and neither is my colleague,” he said quietly.  “I do not give a damn as to what you do after I set you loose, but your fate is partially in your hands.”  He tilted his head slightly, and John realized that the ‘colleague’ was on the other end of the earpiece, giving instructions.  “We will provide the disguise, and I will drop you off at an undisclosed location,” he added, leaning back on a foot slightly.

“Can you even drive with a busted arm?  You can’t even shoot with it,” Tom asked skeptically, eyeing the cast.

“Dr. Molly Hooper is coming over later tonight to take a look at it and maybe give me a brace of some kind.  And at you two, while she’s here,” Falsworth said, glancing at John, who had carefully schooled his blank expression.  “Then I’m taking him out, and then I won’t come back until I’ve taken care of some unfinished business.”

“What’s that?” Tom asked, and Falsworth only smiled at him.

“I really wouldn’t try to piss me off if I were you.  Remember when I said that your fate was partially in your hands?  I’m the one who decides the other factor in whether you live or not,” Falsworth said with the smug grin before disappearing back into the hall.

“What, you’re gonna shoot _me_?” Tom yelled after him.

“No, I’ll be the guy trying to shoot the guy, who, if the plan goes well, will be shooting at you!” Falsworth barked back from the kitchen.

Tom turned white.   “I know I’ve got arrest warrants all over Europe, but I didn’t think people hated me _that_ much!” he shouted, straining against the duct tape.

“Actually, you have arrest warrants in the United States, Canada, Mexico and Columbia too, so you’re not restricted to the European continent.  I checked when we first looked you up,” Falsworth said, leaning back into view.  “So, if you do as I say, you actually get a chance of staying out of jail for a little longer.  Refuse and kick up a fight, well, I know how to get in touch with at least six different security agencies around the world, and I’ll throw you up to the highest bidder.  The Americans especially are missing you somewhat painfully, so I hear.”

“You wouldn’t,” Tom countered.

“For several thousands?  I think I just might, especially since I need a serious gift to make up for all the stress I’ve been giving Amy in the last couple weeks,” Falsworth calmly replied, even managing to look bored despite the topic of discussion.  “And bail money, come to think of it.  Assuming Holmes doesn’t murder me on the spot for deceiving him for several months ago in New York.”  He frowned, and then disappeared once again.

“That’s not a lot of options.  Escape or get shot, or get arrested for life,” Tom said nervously, leaning against the wall as best he could; Falsworth had left him propped up there.  He glanced pleadingly at John and said, “What do you think I should do?”

John didn’t answer right away, just sank back down in the armchair.  He was exhausted and stressed as it were, he didn’t know if Mrs. Hudson was doing all right at her sister’s or not.  Then there was the matter of Molly Hooper, and the role she played in all of this.  John didn’t know if he’d be able to trust her or not once she arrived, if she would give him answers if he asked.  Would she lie to him even then?  “Who is it that Falsworth is trying to kill?” he asked wearily, looking back up at Tom.

Tom shrugged.  “Probably the last of Moriarty’s lackeys, that’s all they’ve been doing since I’ve known them.  I told you, doc, that I first met the two of them when they came to me looking for the names of several prior clients.”

“Demonde was most likely one of those clients,” John finally said, glancing at Lestrade.  “One of Moriarty’s men.  Since we could never figure out what the message meant ‘One more left’, chances are good that Adair was the subject of that ‘one more left’ message left behind.”

“And we know for sure that Falsworth was the sniper that killed him while ‘Leader’ attacked him in person,” Lestrade said, eyes narrowing.  “Which means that…”

“The Leader pretended to be Sherrinford Holmes in New York, and faked his death so that he and Falsworth could continue hunting down these people without someone breathing down their necks, remember that Tom said that one of the Leader’s older cousins, a ‘Sherrinford’, was going to murder two of the participants.  Falsworth would have known where to shoot to make the faked death look convincing,” John said.  “Gregson was fooled, and fooled well.”

“We might need to draw up a chart, figure out who knows what, and who is related to whom.  If the Holmes family is as big as it’s starting to look, then we might be looking at numerous individuals related to the case,” Lestrade agreed.  He frowned, and then said in a low voice, “Should we use Baker Street as a rendezvous point?”

“No.  We don’t know how much Molly told them,” John said quietly, rubbing his forehead.  “She’ll know where we are.”

“In other words, we need to disappear,” Lestrade said.  He glanced at the still – empty threshold, and said, “We could always go to my flat, I moved after, er, well, you know.  I don’t think Mycroft knows where it is.”

“Mycroft isn’t the one hunting us down,” John reminded him.  “But, as long as you don’t mind, we can use it for recuperation.”

“And what about me?” Tom interrupted, eyes flickering nervously between the two of them.

“It looks like our window of opportunity is going to be while Falsworth is out of the house.  He did say that you’d have a chance of living if you could escape the other gunman,” Lestrade said grimly.  “I hate to say this, but John and I can easily overpower Molly long enough to escape, and the Leader won’t get close to us if we make sure Gladstone is front and center,” he said, nodding to the dozing dog. 

“So you’d have to go for the option that has you escape or die so that we can use the time Falsworth’s gone in order to leave,” John said, looking back at Tom, who was shaking.  “How badly are you wanted in those other countries?”

“I ran illegal weaponry over countless borders for numerous years.  You tell me,” Tom snapped back.  “If I go in there, I swear I’ll never come out.”  Taking a shaky, deep breath, he said, “I’ll go ahead with Falsworth’s crazy plan.  It’s my only shot of ever getting out of here.  You guys can take advantage of that to escape, and we can rendezvous somewhere.  Or you can do whatever you want and I’ll try to book it to France.”

“Is there anything else that you know that could help us?” John asked.

Tom shrugged.  “Dunno.  If I do, I’ll send a letter or something.  Or a postcard.  Probably a postcard, those don’t require a return address, which I wouldn’t have anyway,” he said. 

“What do you plan to do once you’re free?” John asked.

“Lay low for a while.  Travel west, Central or South America, hide out there for a while.  I can’t exactly start a new life since I have a load of people hunting me down.  Sedentary lifestyle never really appealed to me anyway, so it works out,” Tom said, shrugging again.  “You guys should be careful, running around London in the dark.  But I’m guessing you still have some sense of the area despite you don’t know where _exactly_ you are, since you’re from the city and all.”

John nodded.  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, from the sound of it, I’ve just got to outrun a sniper while exposing him to Falsworth,” Tom said, sagging down in his bindings.  “I’ve ran from plenty of people before, this shouldn’t be hard,” he said, brightening – or at least trying to – as he awkwardly forced himself back into a straight position.  “What I don’t get though is why Falsworth forced me to stand up next to Doc, I mean, what could he possibly get from that that is remotely useful?”

“Diversion,” Lestrade suddenly said.  At John’s puzzled glance, Lestrade said, “We already know Falsworth is using Tom as a distraction, but he needed a convincing target.”  Frowning, he added slowly, “Tom is supposed to look like someone else, so that the initial sniper has a target.  Which means, if Falsworth is going to make Tom pass as you, then who wants you dead, and why?” he finished, brows knitting together in concern.

John honestly had no answer to that.


	8. Escape

It wasn’t until the first year anniversary of the Fall did John come to terms with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was in fact, dead. 

Not as in, ‘going-to-walk-through-the door-after-an-experiment’ dead.

John had visited the grave for the first time since the funeral that day, still feeling as numb as he did when he’d turned Sherlock’s cold body over in front of St. Bart’s.  There had actually been a few, bundled – up people already at the grave when John arrived, and he’d backed off to give them space.  It never really occurred to John that Sherlock might have had family outside of Mycroft, no family other than Mycroft had been at the funeral, but here they were.  Two women and one man, all of them unfamiliar except a few facial features they shared with both Mycroft and Sherlock.  One of the women had been older than the other two, and John suspected that it was an older relative, and a parent to the two younger individuals.  They’d left without a word, passing John in silence, but while the older woman and younger man unconsciously avoided eye contact, the younger woman managed a somewhat blank glance in John’s direction.

But they were definitely relatives.

That visit to the cemetery marked the beginning of a long year of ‘what ifs’ and weekly visits to the grave.

* * *

“Hope I’m not too late!” came Molly’s familiar, perky voice from down the hall.  John glanced at the door while Lestrade sighed, rubbing Gladstone’s ears; it was almost show time.

“Don’t worry.  We shouldn’t be doing anything too complicated tonight.  Rat’s just going to trick Moran into giving up his location, I’d like you to check Rat over as well,” Falsworth said, his voice carrying down the hall as he led Molly toward the living room.  “I’m also a little worried about the Detective Inspector, the anesthetic from lunch should have worn off by now but he’s still not moving much.”

“How much did you give him?” Molly asked, her voice carrying down the hall well enough. 

“As much as you told me to,” Falsworth replied, sounding a little hurt.

Molly muttered something under her breath.  Louder, she said, “I told you already.  One more mistake with the medications, and I’m not giving you any more.  Neither is Liz, she already doesn’t trust –”

“All right, I get it.  No more meds because apparently I’m not trustworthy enough with them,” Falsworth said loudly, cutting her off completely.  “You wanted a status report, this is me giving you your status report.”

“How is your arm doing?”

“Fine, I guess.  Starting to hurt a little though.”

“That would be the pain meds from earlier wearing off.  Let me look at the others first, then I’ll check on you,” Molly said before her footsteps resumed down the hall. 

John waited until she’d rounded the corner into the lit living room.  “Molly,” he greeted calmly, hoping that he looked exhausted instead of wary.  In order for there to be a smooth escape, they couldn’t make Molly anxious or she was likely to hover, hindering their chances of a clean break.

“John,” she greeted, setting the bag down on the ground.  Swallowing, she said, “I know what this looks like, and I promise to explain everything, but I couldn’t say no when they approached me,” she said, the words coming out in a rush.  Worried brown eyes scanned the two men over, and, as though to break the awkward silence, she said nervously, “At least you two look healthy.”

“Where were you when we were captured?” Lestrade cut in, leaning forward with a frown.

Molly glanced back in the hall and said, “I was… doing something else with a colleague, one who’s actually a doctor, like you John.  She works at St. Bart’s… if I’d known you were coming, I could have met up with you,” she said, wringing her hands.  

“You need to do something about your assistants, Molly.  Sigerson?  He’s one of the parties responsible for the deaths that have ended up on your table,” Lestrade said, leaning forward slightly.

“I knew that.  I told you, when they came to me, I couldn’t say no,” Molly whispered, looking heartbroken. 

“How long?” John asked quietly.

Molly opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly became aware of Falsworth casually leaning against the doorframe.  When he noticed her staring at him, he said, “Don’t stop on my account.  Keep in mind that I haven’t removed Rat from the premises yet, and I’m not keeping track of where he goes after we’re done here.”

Molly just nodded before turning back to John.  “Three years John, I’m so sorry, I really am, it’s just that they made me swear to silence and –”

“Long story short, we had to keep several persons of interest in the dark as long as possible,” Falsworth interrupted.  “The boss will explain when he gets here.  Molly, he’s going to need more disinfectant for his leg, idiot’s been running around despite the fact that the dog took a chunk out of it.”

“He’ll have to go to the supplier for that, I didn’t bring anything for him,” Molly said apologetically.  She turned back to John, who was still waiting patiently.  “Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry,” John calmly replied.  “I just want to know what I’ve been dragged into, I don’t like it when I’m doing this blind.  Even when… Sherlock was alive, I knew what I was getting into when it came to chasing criminals around London.”

Molly glanced at Tom, who gave her a blank, innocent stare.  “I’ll tell you once they’re gone,” she said finally, taking a step back.  Glancing back at Falsworth, she asked, “You saw the broadcast earlier today?”

“Please tell me we have someone covering it,” Falsworth said.  “And that Amy is safe.”

“She’s fine.  So is Mrs. Hudson, they’re both at the same place,” Molly admitted, eyes flickering back to John long enough for him to read the guilt there. 

“How many people do you have working for you?” Lestrade interrupted, staring at the two of them.  “I feel like I’m facing an invisible army…”

“Close, but not really, we have just enough people to cover the problematic areas of the government and city.  We lost Mycroft’s support after New York, but we knew people.  That’s all you need to know,” Falsworth replied curtly.  “Now, unlike the rest of you I have a schedule to keep, we have to be at Baker Street in twenty minutes and it’s not exactly a quick trip.”

“Why are we going there?” Tom asked, speaking up for the first time in hours.

“Because that’s the last place any of us saw Moran.  Mind you, I’m not letting you go until I have confirmation of Moran’s presence.”

“And how the hell are you going to do that?” Tom asked irritably.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Falsworth said with a slight sneer on his face.

“Actually, I would.”

Falsworth ignored him.  Instead he said, “Did the supplier leave me _anything_ , Hooper?”

“Just the usual painkillers, nothing fancy.  There should also be something in there to help with any swelling, and she left instructions how to make a brace strong enough to handle the gun,” Molly said, turning back to Falsworth.

“It’s a rifle, and yes, please help me with that.  This’ll be the first time I’m going up against Moran in years, and he’s clearly doing fine health-wise… of course he is, that bastard…” Falsworth said as he turned and disappeared down the hall, the last word disappearing into an irritated mutter.  Molly sent an apologetic glance at John before following the irritated man.

For a moment, no one said anything.

“Well, at least no one lost his or her temper,” Lestrade said, leaning back.  “I’m half – tempted to hear Molly’s explanation.”

John frowned.  “What makes you think she won’t lie to us?” he asked, blue eyes going from Lestrade to Tom.

“You’re taking this calmly,” Tom remarked, sagging slightly in his bonds.

“That’s because I’m in a hostage situation, and in my experience, panic usually never gets a person anywhere.  Trust me, once I’m free, it will all catch up,” John replied tiredly, letting Gladstone climb up into his lap.  “Is there anything helpful you can tell us, Tom?  Who are the other people helping Falsworth and Leader?”

“Honestly, I hadn’t realized that there were even any other people.  Can’t be a lot though, people will start talking if you have too many helpers.  It’s kind of hard to keep a secret this long if there are enough participants because someone is bound to notice something off,” Tom replied.  He frowned, and then said, “I wonder if that’s what happened when the C.I.A. started their pursuit after me, I employed at least ten people at the time.  Fired them all, but the C.I.A. is still at it.  Chasing me that is.”

“Out of curiosity, how long have you lived life on the run?” Lestrade asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Dunno, five, six, seven years?  Ten?” Tom hedged as Falsworth returned, his arm enclosed in what looked like a black metal case.  “I didn’t know you were into Transformers,” Tom said as Falsworth came over.

“You really want to sass me when I have a _knife_ in my hand?” Falsworth snapped, and Tom promptly shut up.  As he knelt and began to saw at the duct tape, Falsworth added, “You know what Leader told me earlier this afternoon?”

Tom glanced at John warily and then said, “No, what did he say?”

“He said that in a different situation, in a different life, he could see the two of us working together.  You doing whatever it is you do, me keeping your arse out of trouble,” Falsworth said, frowning slightly as he studied the tape, and for a moment, John thought he found one of the spots that Lestrade had been working on.  But then he continued. “I told him to go to hell, and he said he would if the Devil was still around, but apparently he wasn’t since he’d shot himself in the head on top of a hospital.”

“I think the boss-man wants to go home.  Just saying,” Tom idly replied.

“Of course he does.  He has several deep holes he still has to dig himself out of first, but that’s not my problem, so I’m not going to say anything more about it,” Falsworth said, pulling the tape apart.  Grabbing Tom’s collar, he held the man still as he yanked tape off and stepped back to let Tom shake himself off.  “Good.  Once we’re in the van, I’ve got some clothes for you to wear for tonight.”

“Is it a tux?” Tom asked.

Falsworth didn’t bat an eye.  “No.”

“Dinner suit?”

“Just get moving.  You might want to use the loo before we leave, last guarantee for the night,” Falsworth said as he began ushering Tom out of the room.

Tom stumbled slightly from the sudden movement after hours of cramped sitting and standing.  “Why do you guys call it a ‘loo’ anyway?” he asked as Falsworth hauled him back up and out into the hall.  “I mean, when I hear that, I think of –”

“For the love of everything holy, please _shut_ _up_ ,” Falsworth barked, startling Tom into silence.  “We both know I have an inclination to murder you, don’t help it along.”

John listened to the retreating duo, and then said, “Tom will be fine.  For all his talk of suffering out there, he’s a survivor.  If he’s lived that long on his own, he’ll be fine.”

Lestrade nodded.  “Very well, so it’s just us that need to escape.  I suppose we could always arrange to meet with Molly at a neutral location if we needed to talk to her,” he said, smoothly standing up and stretching. 

“I wouldn’t, what if she kept lying?” John asked in a low voice.  The two became very still as they heard footsteps down the hall, heading to the front door.  They heard Tom protesting something and Falsworth’s curt interruption before shoving the other out the door.  “We give them five minutes to leave, and then we’ll leave,” John said.

“Through the front door?” Lestrade asked.  “That’s just asking for it…”

“This is a flat, remember.  We’d have to leave through the building first, and if we’re lucky, this is a populated area of the city not too far from St. Bart’s because carrying bodies, unconscious or dead, is enough to arise suspicion.  Falsworth is used to working in the shadows, his job demands it.  Driving too far anywhere would make him feel uncomfortable and exposed.  All we have to do is get somewhere public, hail a cab, and leave,” John said, keeping his voice low.  They waited a few moments in silence, and then said, “I’m guessing we’re on an upper floor, I can’t think of any reason why we wouldn’t be able to hear a departing vehicle.”

“I can think of five different reasons why we wouldn’t hear the car, but let’s wait nonetheless,” Lestrade said, careful to keep his voice down.  “Is Molly still here?”

“Just because you can’t hear her doesn’t mean she’s not here.”  John quickly scanned his surroundings, and said, “I don’t see Gladstone’s leash.”

“Can you improvise?” Lestrade asked quietly.

“With what?”

“Ummm…”

The two men looked around, but it was John who spotted the loose curtain cords and got an idea.  “As nice as this apartment is,” he began slowly, “We’re going to need those.”

“And we can always point out that we never wanted to be here in the first place,” Lestrade replied grimly as the two of them walked over to the curtains.  “In case someone demands reparations.”  Glancing around the room behind them, Lestrade said, “It just occurred to me that there aren’t any phones in here, wireless or otherwise.”

“Of course not, Falsworth knew we would have called someone for help,” John said, carefully taking down the white curtains.  A glance through the window showed an impressive view of the London skyline, albeit without the Houses of Parliament or the clock tower.  Carefully disconnecting the curtain from the rod, he managed to untie the cords from the rods, and then whistled softly to call Gladstone over.  “Do you want to make sure Molly is at least busy before we leave?”

“I’ll get the leash ready, I’m supposed to still be unable to walk.  You go,” Lestrade warned him softly.  John nodded before leaving.

The rest of the flat was just as luxurious as the one room.  It was oddly quiet with Tom gone, but for the most part, the rest of the flat seemed empty.  Falsworth evidently had been sleeping in the guest bedroom (the sheets were almost completely off the bed) while someone else, ‘Leader’, John theorized, had been using the master bedroom.  Judging from the neatness of the bedspread though, either Leader didn’t sleep often or hadn’t been in the flat for some time, and was just using the bedroom as a place to leave what looked like a worn satchel and a backpack up against the wall.  A black phone lay innocently on the nightstand; a few smudges in the surrounding dust that looked suspiciously like someone had brushed it with fingers.  After a moment of hesitation, John took it, figuring that once he and Lestrade had access to the Yard’s resources again, they could figure out who the owner was.  He was careful to wrap it in a tissue in an attempt to preserve any fingerprints.

The kitchen was small, but also empty.  There wasn’t even the smallest sign that Molly had ever been there except for the small mess of prescription-looking medical supplies on the counter in the bathroom. 

She wasn’t there.

“I think it’s safe to say that we’re alone, I can’t find her anywhere,” John said, walking back into the living room as Lestrade finished tying off the curtain cords in a makeshift leash for Gladstone.   “And even if she is still in the flat, as long as we’re quiet we’ll be fine.”

“What’s in your pocket?” Lestrade asked, frowning.

“A mobile I found in the master bedroom, it was recently put there.  I figured we could track down the owner once we got back to the Yard,” John said.  He grimaced, and said, “Although any marks might be smudged, I tried not to contaminate it by wrapping it in a tissue.”

“At this point, anything is better than nothing,” Lestrade whispered back.  He straightened, and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

The two of them stepped out of the flat into a carpeted hall that had a lift on either side with crystal lighting lining both sides of the hallway.  John may have felt uncomfortably out of place in the flat, but now he definitely felt as though he was painfully sticking out like a sore thumb.  “How badly do you think we’re sticking out right now?” he whispered to Lestrade, who was at his side.

“Badly.  We just need to get out of here, and then track down everyone.  And talk to Holmes, figure out what the hell is going on, maybe even mention that we found one of his missing men,” Lestrade said as the two began to walk toward the lift.

“Or maybe both.  ‘Leader’ and Falsworth both broke ties in New York,” John said, careful to keep his voice down.  He wasn’t going to be able to relax until they were truly far away from this place. 

The lift ride was uneventful, but it was the walk through the luxurious lobby that put John even more on edge.  The night guard barely spared them a glance, but the receptionist made eye contact with John, nervous hazel eyes flickering between the two men.  At first, John thought she was going to raise a fuss, but then she stood up to greet another entering resident, and he saw that she was at least six months along. 

“Hail a cab?” Lestrade suggested as they stepped out onto a surprisingly busy street. 

“Let’s walk a ways before we do anything.  And watch out for the CCTV cameras, Mycroft will _definitely_ notice if we’re outside any usual haunts that he knows about,” John said, glancing around and noticing that they were still painfully sticking out, as most of the pedestrians were finely dressed.

Gladstone let out an unexpected thin whine, causing John to stop and looked down.  The dog was tugging at the makeshift leash, adamantly sniffing around the sidewalk.   "No, Gladstone, not here," John hissed, tugging the leash slightly to pull Gladstone back in line. It only partially worked; the dog yelped before yanking on it again, clearly in a rush.  It began to walk forward so briskly that John had to walk fast in order to prevent Gladstone from choking itself on the collar. 

"Someone's just as eager to get out of here as we are," Lestrade muttered as he kept pace with John.  "Shall I call a cab?"

"Please do. "  John glanced up and down the still - crowded street: something was beginning to feel off.  "We need to get out of here.  Out of exposure anyway."

"Bad feeling?"

"Call it soldier's instincts."

Lestrade didn't reply this time, just headed over to the curb and raised a hand to hail one of the many black taxis, which arrived surprisingly promptly.  "New Scotland Yard, please," Lestrade said into the open window, and the capped driver nodded without turning to face him.  "John, you get in first, just hold onto Gladstone.  The bloke hasn't complained about the dog yet," he muttered, still scanning the crowds for the perceived threat.  "You think it's Falsworth coming back?" he muttered as John slipped into the backseat.

"I don't know… probably Falsworth, snipers always made me on edge whether they were on our side or not," John replied as Lestrade got in next to him.  For a few moments, he tried to soothe Gladstone, who had started growling, eyes pinned to the cabbie, who resolutely ignored the two of them.  He gave up after the cabbie started driving and Gladstone tried to bite him: a rare occasion, but not unexpected especially after everything they'd just gone through.  "I'll head back to Baker Street, meet up with you at the Yard.  There are a few things I want to get before we disappear again," he said, glancing at Lestrade, who frowned.

 

"I'd feel better if we stuck together," he finally said, looking out the window.  John wondered if the detective inspector was as tired as he looked.

"I'm still worried about Mrs. Hudson.  I need to make sure she's all right," John said, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes.  "I don't know who else to trust right now, but I'm hoping that Mycroft will be able to get her to safety if Falsworth decides to go after us again.  She hasn't asked for any of this, hasn't done anything to deserve this."  He snorted, and then said, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but we really need to talk to Mycroft.  Clear up a few things, find out the name of the other man working with Falsworth and track him down as well.  Mycroft will need to know that Falsworth has been in London the entire time he's been M.I.A. and that the death in New York was staged to cut him out of whatever loop the two men had with him.  I suspect that Adair might have had something to do with it, that he wasn't supposed to hear something that Falsworth found out but heard anyway, and so to cut their losses, Falsworth and his companion staged the death in order to trick Mycroft."

"That doesn't explain why _you're_ a target though.  It doesn't explain why Falsworth wanted to disguise the American to look like you to use as a target," Lestrade countered.

John laughed harshly.  "Isn't it obvious?  Even three years dead, Sherlock Holmes is _still_ leaving trouble behind for me to deal with.  Someone wanted to finish him off for good, but Moriarty did that first, on the rooftop of St. Bart's.   Now they're after me by association," he said, shaking his head, smiling despite the severity of the situation.   He almost lost his grip on Gladstone, who had attempted to lunge for the seemingly undisturbed cabbie.  "If he wasn't dead already, I'd punch him for giving me this much grief.  But it would also be welcome, three years is a long time to go without that sort of trouble, it'll almost bring back the eighteen months we had.  Too bad we can't find Tom again, he'd be able at least get us connected with someone who has a bloody idea of what's going on around here."

"Well, he did say he'd send a postcard," Lestrade said, shaking his head.  "Let me know if you find a dead body or some cold murder case that Holmes had solved, I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to have one last dig at Anderson even from beyond the grave."

John shook his head.  "What did we get ourselves into?  Dealing with the Holmeses, who apparently have a talent of reaching beyond the grave to torment the living even more."

"Well, Falsworth did call them 'slippery victims'," Lestrade said off-handedly, and John nodded, mentally squashing out the sudden, tiny flicker of hope that just maybe, by some odd twist of fate, Sherlock had somehow survived the jump and was probably waiting for one of them to figure the clues out and come after him.

If that was the case, as improbable as it was, John made a mental promise to himself land a good one.

* * *

Lestrade got off at the Yard, promising to call as soon as he had more details on the flat and Falsworth.  John handed him the stolen phone to use for further analysis before readjusting his grip on a furious Gladstone; the dog had been growling in its throat for the _entire_ drive so far, and showed no signs of letting up.  The cabbie was mercifully silent, ignoring a pissed off Gladstone and a contemplative John.  When John paid him at 221B Baker Street, the cabbie just grunted and took the money without a word before driving off and disappearing around the corner.  Gladstone finally lost it, barking, growling and snarling at the departing cab, and John wondered if he'd have to train Gladstone again to _not_ menace strangers before taking him out on walks.  It took everything in his self - control to keep Gladstone from bolting after the car.

Mrs. Hudson's flat was still empty and dark, and John realized that she was probably at her sister's still.  John meanwhile was looking forward to clean clothes, un-poisoned food, and a nice hot shower, just to feel clean again.  Then he would get a decent sleep so he'd be ready to go the next morning.  He made a mental note to call Katie, the girl down the street who happily watched Gladstone while John was away on at medical conferences, and see if she could watch Gladstone for a little while so that John could get this current mess sorted out soon. 

"What's wrong, Gladstone?" he asked as he unlocked his door.  Gladstone was bristling, growling at the door as John paused and studied the spot in question.  In doing so however, he noticed that there was a faint scrape on the wood next to the lock, as though someone had dug a tool into the frame in order to pop the door free without too much noise.

_Intruder._

Wishing yet again he still had his Browning, John took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and dropped the makeshift leash.

Gladstone was inside in moments, growling and barking into the dark flat.

"I don't know who you are, but I'd appreciate it if you could leave peacefully before the police arrive," John warned loudly as he walked in.  In the worst-case scenario, he figured he could bluff having his gun when he really didn't, and somehow send a SOS of some kind to Lestrade without tipping the intruder off.  "I'm warning you, I'm armed," he added as he slowly made his way to the light switch near the door and reached for it.

"What a coincidence, so am I," a familiar dry voice said right as John turned the switch on.  John's heart nearly leapt into his throat when he saw who was sitting there.

Colin Falsworth was lounging comfortably on the couch, the long, gleaming sniper rifle leaning against the armrest.  He was wearing black clothing, making his face appear to be unusually pale and his eyes a tad brighter than usual.  Next to him, the front window was still open, and John could only imagine what Falsworth had been up to before John returned.  Gladstone was growling at the sniper, but hadn't yet dared to jump onto the couch to attack him.  That was probably because John had trained Gladstone to stay _off_ the furniture, and it was backfiring on him right now.  Falsworth merely tilted his head at the dog before he said, "Aren't you going to shoot me?"

"I think we both know full well that you disarmed me when I was still unconscious," John replied coolly, noting that the phone was on a nearby table.

Falsworth seemed to follow his line of sight.  "Please don't, Doctor.  I'd hoped to tell you a little of the story that eventually brought the two of us to this standoff, but I won't if you call the police," he said patiently.  "Your Browning, for starters, is in the upper left cabinet above the kitchen sink back at the flat."

"Well, I'll go back during the day then with Lestrade and a third party witness.  Where's Mrs. Hudson?" John demanded.  Something seemed off about Falsworth, but he couldn't put a finger on it at the moment.

"At her sister's," Falsworth countered.  "Doctor Hooper is aiding another physician, despite the fact that her training leans more toward the dead patients rather than the live ones.  She left with us earlier tonight," he added after a moment of thought.

"What do you want?" John finally snapped.  "Seeing as you won't leave me alone anyway..."

"My colleague made several mistakes, which we're rectifying right now.  But I don't have a lot of time," Falsworth said, gingerly moving into a regular sitting position.  "This is what is going to happen.  You are going to remain quiet, I'll tell my portion of the story, and then you're going to go get in the cab that will be waiting right outside this flat.  Understand?"

That was when John saw it.

The sniper's black outfit easily covered it, but the white towel that John hadn't seen until Falsworth moved was stained a vibrant scarlet.  Falsworth grunted when the towel moved from where it was pressed into the side of his stomach, but he just gritted his teeth before putting pressure on the injury again. 

There was a moment of silence between the two men.

"You're..." John began, but Falsworth cut him off.

"Dying.  I know, I got cocky tonight and realized a little too late that Moran was playing the same game as me.  It turned out that the man I was shooting at was a decoy, and Moran was on the roof, not in the window as I'd thought he'd be.  That's why I don't have a lot of time," Falsworth said, grimacing slightly.  He held up a hand right as John started to move toward him.  "No Doctor. I did just as ordered, nothing more."

"I can stop the bleeding long enough to get you to a hospital," John said, shooing Gladstone away to kneel and examine the wound.  "This is treatable.  You don't have to die from this."

"Doctor, all I was told to do was keep you safe long enough for my colleague to take over running this blasted operation.  That's what I'm going to do..."

"No, you listen to me," John interrupted.  "I am going to call 999.  You are going to say what you need to say until the paramedics arrive, and then you'll go with them."

"And you'll get into that cab I mentioned earlier.  I know I've done nothing to deserve it, but I'm asking that you trust me now," Falsworth said, his green eyes meeting John's blue.  "And you'll call Mycroft Holmes, tell him where to find me.  Bit overdue for a status report anyway..."

John hesitated.  "Will I have access to a phone?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"You can have your mobile _and_ your gun back.  You know where the gun is, the mobile is in the nightstand drawer in the guest bedroom," Falsworth said, his breath catching as a wave of pain flashed across his features.

John just nodded, and then walked over to the phone to call the emergency services.  After he got through, he promised to leave the connection alone but he had to leave and tend to the injured party.  "Now's your chance to say what you need to say.  You have five to ten minutes," he said, disappearing into the bathroom to gather the necessary medical supplies and the first aid kit.  "But no complaints, you need that looked at _now_."

"Of course," Falsworth said, rolling his eyes.  He drew in a sharp breath as the pain suddenly spiked, and John began steadily preparing everything.  Falsworth then began to speak.

 


	9. Story

The second year passed just as slowly as the first, marked by a weekly visit to the grave because John finally understood the need to have another to talk to… even if that other person wasn’t going to respond.  He’d felt awkward talking to the skull on its spot on the mantelpiece, and most people he met didn’t understand or were easily disgusted, so he settled for talking to Sherlock’s headstone.  Molly, once she found out, kept trying to talk him out what she deemed an ‘ill habit’.  In an extremely childish move of spite, John continued to talk to the headstone right before he went to St. Bart’s.

Then Mycroft gave him back Sherlock’s old mobile with such an air of finality that John realized that there really was nothing left.  Maybe that was the push he needed to listen to Molly Hooper and cut the last of his emotional ties with Sherlock.

Although, with all the events from the last couple of days, his apparent loss of ties with Sherlock Holmes was being severely tested to John’s personal limits.  It wasn’t going to take him a lot to snap soon.  He already felt sorry for the poor sod that was going to snap his patience.

* * *

“I first met Mycroft Holmes about five years ago, I was on leave from service in Afghanistan and had just married Amy,” Falsworth said, suppressing a grunt as John finished tying the makeshift bandage.  Shifting to make himself more comfortable, he said, “I’d been trying to acquire citizenship paperwork so that she could live here comfortably without me around.  We’d talked about where she was going to live while I was overseas, and we decided that London was easiest, so I’d have a familiar environment to return to.”  Glancing out the darkened window, he said, “In my defense, I didn’t know who he was.  He was in the office at the same time, talking with another clerk about forged documents when someone tried to take shot at him.”

John grimaced as he began cleaning up the soiled cloths.  “I take it didn’t end well for the other man?”

Falsworth shook his head.  “I had an unregistered weapon and faster reflexes.  He died immediately, and I was promptly arrested for what looked like the shooting of a random civilian.  Spent two days in prison until Mr. Holmes showed up to talk.  He said he’d reviewed the footage of the attack, and alerted Amy that I was with him, just so she wouldn’t worry.  Holmes said he was impressed with the speed that which I had responded to the threat, and offered me a job on his security staff, primarily as one of his bodyguards.”

“I’m actually not surprised that he had a bodyguard,” John replied wearily, shaking his head.  “I actually thought Anthea was his bodyguard as well as a secretary.”

“Anthea is whatever Holmes needs her to be.  But he has five other guards, excluding me.  He rotates them when he sees fit, enough to give everyone a chance to work and a break after.  But he has never hired another one since me, not since he lost his favorite security chief to MI6,” Falsworth said, shrugging.  “Anyway, he offered to not only wipe away this little ‘mark’ on my record, but also ‘help along’ Amy’s citizenship process where he could.  The scary thing is that Mycroft is excellent with deal–making to the point where he makes it seem like you have options, but you’re smart enough to know you don’t.  Anyway, I accepted.  He tweaked my military records to state that I’d had an honorable discharge from injuries, and then next thing I knew, I was training again.”

“I did notice that, when Lestrade and I were checking your records at the Yard,” John remarked as he carried everything to the kitchen.

Falsworth chuckled before choking it off with a cough, his entire body flinching from the pain.  “Figures, I should have known you were going to do that.  Anyway, I was with him when you moved in with Sherlock.  Mycroft was forever protective of Sherlock, even going as far as to recruit other members of his extended family to help him keep an eye on Sherlock.  If you ever get a chance to see Holmes family politics at work, make sure you’re an observer, not a participant.  The negotiations get so cutthroat that you forget you’re watching a family, and you’ll think you’re watching the latest round of blows from Washington D.C.” He sighed, and then said, “Sherlock called Mycroft at one point, after that game of his with Moriarty.  Said that he wanted to talk with Mycroft immediately.”

John frowned, trying to remember that night, the events after the Pool.  He and Sherlock had gone home, and he’d gone to sleep, assuming that Sherlock would do his usual puttering around the flat until three in the morning, at which time he would pull out his violin and start playing.  “What did they talk about?” he asked, turning to Falsworth.

The other man shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I was assigned to stand guard outside the door.  Anthea is the only other person who knows what went on inside that room.  But what I can tell you is that after the younger Holmes left, I was sent to the labs at Baskerville to collect several bottles.  Never saw the labels, but I didn’t dare ask.”

Baskerville.  John definitely remembered Baskerville, and not fondly.  “What did you end up doing with the bottles?” he asked, coming back into the room with fresh tea.

“Held onto them.  The contents still had to be tested, but apparently the results were satisfactory.  I was ordered to hand them off with sealed orders to another one of Holmes’s minions,” Falsworth said, suddenly looking uncomfortable.  “Then Moriarty was caught and arrested.”

“This is the trial, right?” John asked, frowning as he set the tea down before Falsworth, who gingerly picked up the mug.

Falsworth shook his head.  “No, this was some time before then.  MI5 had finally caught him, but interrogations were useless.  Holmes tried to bargain with Moriarty, exchange information.  Each time Moriarty answered a question, Holmes baited him with stuff about his younger brother.  I couldn’t hear all that well because I was standing guard outside, but it was enough.  Then they released Moriarty, theoretically the whole encounter never happened.”

“Then Moriarty broke into the Tower of London,” John said slowly.

“And that’s where things careened out of control.  I think Holmes underestimated Moriarty, understandable since he hadn’t witnessed first hand the game that the younger Holmes played with Moriarty,” Falsworth said, shrugging with one shoulder.

“You know, I thought you said you didn’t know who Moriarty was until after the Fall,” John remarked.

Falsworth rolled his eyes.  “Are you trying to catch me in a lie somewhere? Holmes told me the name after the Fall, right before he sent me off to be at the beck and call of –” Coughs wracked through his frame, cutting off whatever name he’d been about to utter.  John moved to keep Falsworth steady, glancing out the window in time to see an ambulance arrive to the curb. 

“The cabbie.  You’ve got to remember… to go with the cab driver,” Falsworth managed to wheeze out between coughs, hands fluttering around the makeshift bandage as though to press it harder against his side.  Gladstone let out a whine as the doorbell rang, and then remained in the living room as John left Falsworth’s side to get the door.

“He’s upstairs.  I tried to slow the bleeding as best I could,” John said to the paramedic at the door.

“Of course.  Please step aside,” the man said before heading upstairs with his team behind him.  John remained patiently in front of Mrs. Hudson’s flat, watching as the paramedics returned, easing Falsworth down the stairs on a stretcher.  The man was paler now, but he was still conscious.  He made eye contact with John, as though trying one last time to reinforce his final order. 

“He was lucky that you were here.  Any more blood loss, and he would have been beyond saving,” said the same paramedic from before, suddenly appearing at John’s side.  He arched an eyebrow and said, “Is there any particular reason why he was here in the first place, with an illegal weapon?”

“Not that I know of.  I just came home to find him bleeding on the couch, I’d been out walking Gladstone, my dog,” John explained, nodding to the pup that was now hovering at the top of the stairs.

“And you weren’t concerned at all for your safety?  He had a rather large rifle, we’ve confiscated that by the way, but he could have shot you,” the paramedic said, frowning.

“Well, didn’t you see that he had a broken arm?  Honestly, I’m impressed that he’s kept it together that long while still doing whatever it is he does,” John said, leaning back on a foot. 

“Well, I have already alerted the police, they will be here soon.  Will you remain here long enough to speak with the officers?” the paramedic said, glancing back at the ambulance. 

“Of course,” John said, sensing his opening.  “I’ll hail a cab after, it’s no problem to clear out so that they can do what they need to do.”  He didn’t mention that aforementioned gunman had given him one last set of instructions, and he’d figured that if he’d made it this far, he might as well as see the venture through to the end.  There were too many questions and not enough answers.

The paramedic, surprisingly enough, waited for John to get the proper leash this time, as well as food and other supplies for Gladstone.  Then, stuffing a change of clothes into a backpack, he headed back downstairs with the now–overexcited dog.  “I’m assuming that the police will also investigate the flat for anything else?” he asked wearily as he came down.

“Most likely.  It’s not every day we receive a call for an injured gunman camped out in a resident’s living room,” the paramedic replied, shrugging with one shoulder.  “But I must be going now, please don’t forget to wait for the police.”

“Very well.  I’ll stay elsewhere for the night after they’re here, just in case it’s still not safe.  I’ll check in with the Yard first though, good night,” John said, smiling reassuringly at the paramedic, who simply nodded before leaving.

John, remembering Falsworth’s words, looked down the street to find not just a cab, but also the _same exact_ cab that had brought him here less than an hour ago. 

If the driver’s broad-brimmed hat wasn’t enough of a clue, then Gladstone’s low growling should have been enough of a hint.

John figured that if this man didn’t give him the answers, then Gladstone might get a little more exercise for the night.

He said nothing as the cab inched its way up back to the front door after the paramedics left, stopping so that the passenger door was right in front of John.  Gladstone twitched, as there was a faint _click_ of the door unlocking, but didn’t move, even as John gingerly picked him up and slid into the passenger seat, placing the backpack on the floor at his feet.  “I assume you’re Falsworth’s contact, and that we’re heading back to the flat that I was a prisoner in,” he said, turning to the other man.

The driver simply nodded before moving the cab away from the curb.

For some time, the two drove in complete silence.  While John may have started to feel his exhaustion steadily growing, Gladstone was only growing more agitated.  If John didn’t stay alert, then Gladstone would try to take a bite out of the driver’s arm, which was also the only time the driver would show an emotion as he flinched away from the dog.  Almost as though he was afraid of Gladstone, or was wary that Gladstone, a usually calm dog, would attack him.  Gladstone never attacked anyone unless said person had been threatening John first, and the only person, well, people, who did that recently was Falsworth and –

That’s when it clicked in John’s head.

“You’re Sigerson, right?  Molly’s ‘assistant’ at the morgue,” he said, the driver stilling at his words.  John heard a ghost of a familiar voice whisper ‘ _Go on’_ , like Sherlock used to do when he was pushing John to make his own deductions.  Sighing, John added, “You’re also the one that Falsworth, and Tom for that matter, addressed as ‘Leader’, the one who faked his death in New York City.  You did it to avoid Mycroft for a reason I still don’t know, and, after having heard the account from the New York Police Captain Gregson and Falsworth, I suspect that it was Falsworth who ‘killed’ you, somehow the two of you arranged it to make look convincing. Mrs. Falsworth only added to the tableau with her genuine reaction, something Falsworth confessed to afterwards.  Although,” John said, attracting Sigerson’s attention, “I wonder where you got the body to send to London.”

Sigerson didn’t speak, but shrugged and gestured vaguely in the air with a hand.  John got it a moment later.  “You got Molly Hooper on that front, didn’t you?”

Sigerson nodded, but remained stubbornly silent.

John continued thinking back.  Tom had said that the two, Sigerson and Falsworth, had asked about nine men, but later, when the news reporter was doing the count-off, Falsworth had also complained about the numbers being off.  “You still have one more man to kill, ‘ _one more left’,_ am I right?”

Sigerson hesitated, and then nodded.

“Out of curiosity, how far do you think you’re going to get without Mycroft noticing?” John asked.

Sigerson shrugged with an air about him that seemed to indicate that he just didn’t care.  He was almost like Sherlock in that respect.

“Why am I involved?” John asked quietly.

This time, Sigerson remained focused completely on the road, not even reacting when Gladstone growled at him again.

John silently bit back his own growl of frustration.  He was exhausted; he’d had a very long day of fearing for his life and escaping only to return to custody again.  He looked Sigerson over; the man seemed thin enough for John to easily overpower him if the need came to it, and John knew to be careful; while Sherlock was thin, he’d also been wiry, making it a tad harder for John to defeat him while he was prepared.  He was also extremely tired of being kept deliberately out of the loop, even more so since his life evidently depended on it.  “Are you going to maintain silence around me the whole time?” he asked finally. 

Sigerson shook his head, and then gestured with one hand to the world outside the car, which John took to interpret as that they were still too exposed for an open discussion.

Instead of leaving John at the curb, like he thought Sigerson would, Sigerson instead drove the cab past the building and turned the vehicle down the nearest alley and parked it there.  He remained silent and hidden as he shut the car off and then smoothly got out of the driver’s seat, to which John interpreted as time for him to leave as well.  He grabbed his backpack before setting Gladstone on the ground.  He kept the leash firm in hand as he followed Sigerson; Gladstone had been growling nonstop for twenty minutes now, and John was still trying to gauge Sigerson’s intentions as well as figure out what had led him to trust this stranger in the first place.  That of course led to the question of what had led him to trust Falsworth enough in the first place.

The night guard from earlier was gone from the lobby when the two men entered, but the pregnant receptionist was still there, quietly working at her desk.  To John’s surprise, Sigerson wandered over to where she was sitting and leaned on her desk, pointedly waiting for her attention.  John calmly stood off to the side where he could watch and gauge her reactions, primarily to see how well she knew Sigerson.

It took her a few minutes to realize that Sigerson was even standing there, and when she did, she jumped in surprise.  “Jerk,” she snapped, hazel eyes flashing as she leaned back in her chair.  “How many bloody times do I have to tell you _not to sneak up on me like that?_ ”

Sigerson merely shrugged.  She frowned, and then spotted John.  She looked instantly guilty, and John realized that she had been the whistleblower, alerting Falsworth and Sigerson to his and Lestrade’s escape from earlier.  “Well, you’re still a jerk,” she finally said after turning back to Sigerson.  She opened a drawer and pulled out a brown paper bag.  “The only reason I’m giving this to you is because I’m trusting Doctor Watson to monitor your dosage,” she said, glaring at Sigerson.  “And stop walking around on that damned leg, you’re only going to make the injury worse.”

_“How many people do you have working for you?  I feel like I’m facing an invisible army.”_

_“Close, but not really, we have just enough people to cover the problematic areas…we lost Mycroft’s support after New York, but we knew people.”_

This woman was one of those people, John realized.  Molly was a pathologist, not a physician.  She specialized in the dead, not the living, but someone had been providing prescription medication to Falsworth and Sigerson.  A doctor who would have access to medicines and other first aid supplies.

John blamed his exhaustion for not catching on sooner.

“…and for God’s sake, be careful!  Jeffrey says that the phone was taken from the flat, so don’t use that number anymore,” the woman was saying in a low voice when John refocused on her again.  “He’s wiped the phone’s memory and erased the registration information, so for all intents and purposes, it’s been an unregistered mobile with no calls or texts,” she added as Sigerson snatched the brown paper bag from her.  Glancing at John, she whispered, “And make things right.  Please.”

Sigerson leaned in, undoubtedly whispering his response to her.  She was evidently displeased by his response, because she used a pen to poke him in the chest and push him away from the desk.  Gripping the paper bag, Sigerson turned and gestured for John to follow him.  

It was a rather awkward trip in the lift; Gladstone sat directly in front of Sigerson, growling and baring his teeth, John kept sneaking glances at Sigerson, whose face was still covered by the hat, turned-up coat collar, and a tattered checkered scarf, and Sigerson just stared at Gladstone, as though daring the dog to make a move.  So John was rather relieved when the lift came to a stop on the same floor as last time, and he ended up having to leave first since Sigerson silently flat out refused to move while Gladstone was in his way.  So in the hall, John gently pulled Gladstone to the side so that Sigerson could lead the way and more importantly, unlock the flat door.

“Home sweet home,” John muttered under his breath as he entered the flat after Sigerson, shutting the door as he did so.

“Mm, not quite.  But it serves its purpose,” Sigerson said, speaking for the first time since John had met him in the morgue at St. Bart’s. 

John may have not heard the distinctive baritone in three years, but it was ingrained in his memory enough that he could pick it out of a crowd if he were to pass the speaker.  He could only stare in complete shock as his brain registered Sherlock’s voice while he watched ‘Sigerson’ pull the hat off while yanking the scarf loose at the same time.  His old friend ( _yes, it was definitely him, it’s hard to fake those facial features)_ had cut his hair short and dyed it some odd blond color that didn’t suit him at all.  He was also alarmingly thin, and John realized the reason behind his odd behavior that day in St. Bart’s, the running from Lestrade and Mycroft as they’d entered: he hadn’t wanted to be caught just yet.  Sherlock had dressed as he normally would, but John hadn’t bloody seen it.

_You see, but you do not observe._

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said slowly, his voice shaking as three years’ worth of pain and grief surged up through his chest, his blue eyes meeting the familiar yet foreign hazel, “When I wake up, I am going to _murder_ you.  That… that is a promise.”

Then the exhaustion, stress and complete shock from the last few days and minutes overwhelmed him, and the last thing he remembered before collapsing was that he accidentally let Gladstone’s leash fall free from his slackened grip.


	10. Hunter

“Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft Holmes looked up from where he’d been talking to Anthea about the schedule for the upcoming week, and frowned when he found another one of his nameless employees standing in the doorway, clutching a thick folder and looking extremely anxious.  “I thought I asked not to be disturbed for a while,” he said coolly, leaning back in his chair.

The employee swallowed nervously and said, “Sir, you had asked that if we found any information regarding Mr. Adair or Mr. Falsworth, we were to bring it to your attention immediately.”  Glancing anxiously at Anthea, whose face remained blank as usual, the employee swallowed and said, “Well, er, the rifle that was used to kill Ronald Adair was found, it’s in the possession of New Scotland Yard right now.”

“Really?” Mycroft asked, interested now.  “Please shut the door, Mr…?”

“Reynolds, sir.”  Reynolds shut the door as ordered, and then sat down in the chair across the wooden desk from Mycroft.  His eyes flickered once toward Anthea as she moved to stand behind in her usual place behind Mycroft.  Swallowing nervously, he said, “The rifle was found last night, when a 999 call turned out to be for an injured gunman.”  Pushing the files across the desk, he said, “The gunman turned out to be Colin Falsworth.  He had been shot in the gut and had a broken arm as well.”

Mycroft arched a thin eyebrow.  The last time he’d seen his sniper, Falsworth had left London with Sherlock three years ago, charged with keeping Mycroft’s little brother alive.  “Where was he found?” he asked, opening the file and studying the doctor’s reports.

“221B Baker Street, sir.  Doctor John Watson made the call, and was supposed to wait for police to arrive to the flat, but he was gone by the time authorities showed up.  He hasn’t been seen since last night,” Reynolds said, trying not to fidget; Mycroft figured he must have been hired relatively recently.

But the fact that Watson was involved made it all the more interesting.  Mycroft was rather surprised that Watson hadn’t attacked Falsworth first since the latter was technically the interloper in the otherwise safe sanctuary of 221B.  After Sherlock’s death in New York, Mycroft had left Watson alone, assuming that the man was safe since Sherlock was dead for real.  He’d turned his energies into finding the traitor Falsworth, getting distracted when his security chief’s right-hand subordinate, Ronald Adair, was found dead inside his home within the last week.  “Am I right in assuming that Falsworth was the one who murdered Mr. Adair?”

“Yes, sir.  He’d been removing the bullets from his victims to prevent tracing, he was also pinned with the death of Raymond Demonde,” Reynolds replied.

“Is that his MO?  Removing bullets to cover up a trail?” he asked, frowning as he mentally ran through all the previously unsolved murder cases that could possibly fit the description of this one.

Anthea made the connection first.  “Mr. Holmes, New York,” she said, dark eyes flickering between Mycroft and Reynolds. 

Mycroft frowned for a moment, and then immediately realized what she was saying; when it arrived to London, Mycroft had examined his brother’s body himself to visually confirm that it was Sherlock.  The attached coroner’s report had explained that both the bullets to the back and head had been removed some time prior to discovery. 

_Did you betray me for the last time, Falsworth, and kill my brother for real?_

Mycroft remained silent, carefully running through his memories of when Falsworth and Sherlock had left London.  The two had been sniping at each other, and Mycroft knew his brother could be insufferable, but he had thought at the time that Falsworth was made of sterner stuff than the usual person and so could withstand Sherlock’s near constant barbs.  Mycroft clamped down on his steadily rising anger; it would do no one well to make mistakes in the heat of the moment.  No, in order to effectively trap Falsworth and bring him to justice, he’d have to find the man first, and then come up with enough evidence to convict him for the deaths of Adair and Demonde.  Demonde’s records would have to be falsified in order to paint him in a better light, to win the public’s sympathy, but that was child’s play.  Mycroft didn’t say anything as he looked down at Falsworth’s medical records to see who the physician in charge was.

_Doctor Elizabeth W. Redding_

Mycroft frowned: he hadn’t seen his younger cousin in months, mostly because he’d been busy keeping the government in one piece and she’d been preparing her home and life for the baby that was due in three months.  But it wouldn’t be hard to transfer Falsworth from St. Bart’s and into federal custody; Elizabeth had been roped into the whole scheme about a month before Sherlock’s death primarily because Sherlock had been reckless enough to contract an illness while in South America, and she’d been needed to provide the prescription. 

Then Sherlock died, and Mycroft left her alone after that.

She probably didn’t know then, that it was Falsworth who finished Sherlock off. 

_If only I hadn’t sent Falsworth-_

No, he would have, even with the knowledge that Falsworth could be a traitor.  Falsworth stood to lose everything if he did in fact kill Sherlock, because while his loyalty to Mycroft could be faked, his love and devotion to his wife could not.  He would not have done anything to compromise his wife. 

There was something else going on here.

“Reynolds, you are dismissed,” Mycroft said finally, startling the other man.  “Speak of this conversation to anyone, and it will be your last.”

Reynolds gulped at the unspoken implication.  “Understood, sir,” he said before promptly leaving the office.

Scanning the report over again, he was reminded of the fact that Falsworth had been shot.  Whom was he fighting and more importantly, why? 

Leaning in his chair, he thought for a few minutes.  He needed to see the CCTV footage from Baker Street or speak to the people present.

“Anthea, please locate Falsworth’s hospital room, we’re about to clear some things up.  And once you’re done with that, send a text that should effectively distract Elizabeth for a little while.  Make sure to use a number that she doesn’t recognize,” Mycroft said, leaning forward and reawakening his computer.

“Of course, sir.”

While she arranged for Elizabeth to be gone when Mycroft arrived to the hospital, Mycroft accessed St. Bart’s records, noting on the files in the folder also stated that Doctor Watson had gone missing.  He sincerely hoped that the good doctor was staying out of trouble, especially since Sherlock was no longer around to get him into any.  He made a mental note to ask Falsworth why Watson chose to spare his life instead of attacking; Mycroft knew full well that Watson had an illegal Browning in his possession, as well as a hyperactive English bulldog puppy that never hesitated to take on intruders.  It was something of a miracle that Falsworth managed to escape 221B with a shot from a gun other than Watson’s and a broken arm without retribution from the flat’s usual resident.

_Come to think of it, where was Mrs. Hudson during all this?_

Pursing his lips, he silently considered his options.  On one hand, he could ask a staff member on his security team to take a peek into Martha Hudson’s financial records, see if she’d purchased a ticket to somewhere.  On the other hand, he could man up and apologize to his previous security chief, and then ask _him_ to do the hacking since that was really what his ex-chief enjoyed doing, unsanctioned more often than not.  The only downside to that was that the ex-chief also happened to be a younger cousin, the son of his father’s younger sister, and Mycroft risked dragging their last disagreement out into the open yet again with that. 

But it was Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock would never have forgiven him if something happened to Mrs. Hudson.

Gritting his teeth, he reluctantly wrote a short email detailing his apology, which was closely followed by the request.  Then, as an afterthought, he also requested for all of the CCTV footage from Baker Street last night. 

“He’s going to lord this over me until the end of time,” he remarked as Anthea finished her tasks. 

“But at least you’ve taken the first steps to repairing your relationship with him, sir,” Anthea said, her face curiously expressionless.  “Doctor Redding is attending to another group of patients this morning, she switched after tending to Falsworth earlier this morning.  Apparently she didn’t initially check in until _after_ Falsworth’s surgery, having been on the opposite side of London at the time of his arrival.  She went to the next group as soon as he was recovering in the ICU.  Oh, and Detective Inspector Lestrade called a few minutes ago, requesting a one-on-one meeting with you.”

“I’ll have to take that appointment elsewhere, after I see Falsworth.  I’ll be out anyway.  While we’re doing this, please keep an eye out for Jeffrey’s response and let me know once he does reply,” Mycroft said, standing up and gathering his umbrella and coat.  Anthea nodded before following him out of the office, locking the door behind her.

* * *

St. Bart’s was just as Mycroft remembered it to be: white and sterile.  This time though, he wasn’t going down to see Molly, although it would be nice to check in on her, she had been so sweet and helpful when the Holmes brothers thought they knew where Moriarty was going with his insane plans.  She worked well with Elizabeth also, an unexpected bonus for Elizabeth who was otherwise surrounded mostly by men.

“Mr. Holmes,” a nearby doctor greeted as he walked by.  “Do you need any assistance?” he asked, pausing in his tracks to face Mycroft.

“I’m looking for a patient brought in last night, under Doctor Redding’s care,” Mycroft replied with a calm smile.  No reason to start something or worse: alert Elizabeth that he was there in the first place.

Besides, all of the other doctors knew who he was.  If it wasn’t Sherlock, it was Elizabeth that gave Mycroft a reason to be in the hospital in the late morning.  “That would be room 14A in the Intensive Care Unit, Doctor Redding said he’s not quite out of the woods yet.  Something about a post-surgical setback, although she did ask that no one enter the room unless she was there,” the doctor replied, glancing down the hall.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said with a nod before sweeping past the doctor and down the hall toward Falsworth’s indicated room.  “Where did you send Elizabeth?” he asked quietly to Anthea as the two walked briskly.

“To the other side of the hospital, she received a notification that one of the machines is undergoing a malfunction when in reality, there’s no patient in that particular room to begin with,” Anthea replied just as quietly.  “We have maybe ten, fifteen minutes before she returns.”

“That should be plenty of time for a private conversation with Falsworth.  I am most interested in learning of what happened in New York,” Mycroft said as the two of them arrived to the room in question and he pushed the door open.

“What a coincidence, so am I.”

Anthea swore under her breath and moved in front of Mycroft, pulling out a hidden gun from the side holster and aiming it at the interloper before Mycroft even had a chance to register what had just happened.  He stepped to the side, so that he could see over Anthea’s shoulder at the unexpected visitor sitting in the plastic chair right near the bedside.  Mycroft frowned for a moment at the visitor – ragged appearance, a scar-patterned face, the long, case-covered rifle perched delicately on his knees, and cold eyes that were quietly regarding Mycroft.

It took Mycroft a moment to recognize him.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he said, calmly lowering Anthea’s arms so that the gun was no longer in the sniper’s face.  “This is an unexpected honor,” he said guardedly, remembering how easy it had been Moriarty to manipulate him during the interrogation.  He was still grateful that he and Sherlock had been prepared for that possible outcome, there was no telling what would have happened if he and Sherlock had allowed Moriarty to blindside him.

Moran gave him a thin smile.  “Falsworth spoke so highly of you, Mr. Holmes, the last time we talked four years ago,” he said, nodding to the unconscious figure in the bed.  “I wasn’t heartless enough as to murder a former teammate, so I was glad when Jim told me that it was the younger Holmes he was targeting, not you.  But apparently things change,” he said, leaning back in his plastic chair.  Nodding to the only other empty chair in the room, he said, “Please sit down.”

Mycroft kept a smile on his face, trying not to react to Anthea’s anxiety as she kept herself mostly between him and Moran, not enough to block their view, but enough to block any shots that Moran might have been considering.  “May I ask as to what you are doing here?” Mycroft asked pleasantly, sitting down and keeping his umbrella within easy access. 

“Visiting.  It’s a bit of a long story, but the short version is that I have questions, and I suspect you do as well, but only Falsworth knows the whole story.  Unfortunately, the nice Doctor Redding was in the middle of dosing him up on painkillers when I came in, so I asked her very nicely to go get whatever it is she uses to pull people _out_ of unconsciousness so that Falsworth and I can have our own little reunion.  Mainly, I just want to know why he was trying to kill me the other night,” Moran said, glancing over at the unconscious man.

“I suspect it might have something to do with your previous employer,” Mycroft replied lightly.

“Jim?  Probably.”  Moran glanced momentarily at Anthea, and then to the half-open door before he said in a low voice, “Don’t think for one minute that I permanently fell for your younger brother’s trick.”

“You fell for it long enough, which is what matters,” Mycroft replied, resting both hands on top of the umbrella just in case. 

“You want to know how I first found out that I was being duped?” Moran asked, tilting his head slightly.  Without waiting for Mycroft’s answer, he folded his hands on his lap, resting them on top of the gun, and he said, “I lost my first sniper rifle about six months after Holmes jumped, and, in order to keep Jim’s last orders, I went to the usual supplier in Paris to replace it.  An American, if you’re curious, goes by the moniker of ‘Rat’.  Anyway, I found out from one of his minions that two British gentlemen had kidnapped Rat.  So I started to look into it, and was close to identifying the kidnappers.  Next thing I know, my subordinates are being picked off one by one.  Had to get in touch with Jim’s second in command for the next plan of action, and he was useless.  Just told me to carry on with the original plan.  I checked in with the remaining six subordinates, and next thing I knew, I lost a slew of them in the United States and here in England.”

“When did you find out that Sherlock survived?” Mycroft asked.

Moran shrugged.  “I think it might have been a month before he died again.  Two weeks later, I tasked one of my backups to kill the landlady and Watson, just as Jim ordered.  You caught that one, I think,” he said, leaning back in his chair.  “Regents Park, remember?  The doctor left a blog post about it.  Then… then I saw that comment, with the initials.  That just confirmed _everything_ ,” Moran said, eyes glittering.

Mycroft only sighed.  He remembered that post as well, along with the comment that Sherlock had foolishly left behind.  “So you caught us both.  Congratulations,” he said placidly, Anthea moving to block him a little more from Moran’s sight.

“Of course, I was excited to get back to the job.  But then one of my minions called me from New York, said someone had shot a disguised Sherlock Holmes in the back and that Lewinsky, _another_ subordinate, was dead.  My old childhood friend, who happened to be on _your_ security staff, confirmed this when Holmes arrived to London in a coffin,” Moran said, lightly running a finger along the barrel of the sniper rifle.  “I thought it was all well and done.  Myself, as well as the two others who were still alive, were safe.”

“As it is,” Mycroft agreed, eyes flickering toward Falsworth’s still form.

“But then Demonde was shot, and then Adair.  At first, I didn’t know what was going on, but then my last paid informant told me that the shooter had been linked to the death of Holmes in New York as well as the deaths of those two,” Moran said, turning to stare at Falsworth’s pale, unmoving face.  “It was the removal of the bullets that tipped me off.  After all, I had to study Falsworth’s habits before I did the first job for Jim, just in case one of ours was shot and we had no way of otherwise identifying the killer.  Contrary to popular belief, Jim had plenty of other, criminal enemies, each with their own way of killing each other.”

“So you somehow got access to St. Bart’s records.  Did you also inform the media about this, using your dead master’s pseudonym?” Mycroft asked, remembering the newscast from the day before.

“I wish I could take credit for that, but I can’t.  I wouldn’t have to owe any favors otherwise,” Moran replied, shrugging with one shoulder.  “But it forced Falsworth to move, didn’t it?  At that point, Watson had already gone missing, as did Lestrade, and so I was curious at first as to why anyone would go to great lengths to make them both disappear.  Then I realized that Falsworth knew something important, was hiding something from me.”

“What happened last night?” Mycroft asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I hired a man the day before to pretend to be me, just to experiment a little.  I had to find out why Watson was valuable to Falsworth and why he was looking for me when there was no reason to kill me.  Why did he shoot Sherlock Holmes, when it was Holmes’s older brother he worked for in the first place?  There are too many questions, Mr. Holmes, and almost no answers.  I don’t like it when people kill my lackeys, as neither do you, so I’m hoping that Falsworth will be feeling cooperative once he wakes up.  Once that doctor returns, that is.  I wonder what’s taking her so long,” Moran said, glancing reflexively toward the door.

“I’m sure she’ll be back, eventually,” Mycroft replied, making a mental note to stall Elizabeth even more as he stood up, Anthea readjusting her position to keep him shielded.  “In which case, I will leave and come back, I was hoping to talk to the doctor about the length of Falsworth’s stay since I plan to have him stand trial for the deaths of Adair and Demonde in lieu of Sherlock’s death.”  He tilted his head and said, “You should be pleased, and it will be an interesting trial.”

“So long as it outdoes Jim’s,” Moran replied with a straight face.

Mycroft merely nodded before leaving without another word, Anthea remaining directly behind him until she’d shut the door behind him.

* * *

The two of them didn’t speak again until they reached the chauffeured car, which was waiting patiently at the entrance to St. Bart’s.  “Send a text to Elizabeth, tell her to leave immediately.  Then contact New Scotland Yard and inform them that a wanted killer is in the hospital,” Mycroft said, going back to his phone to check his email for a response as Anthea settled down across the seat from him.  

“And the appointment with Lestrade?” Anthea asked, looking up at him.

Mycroft remained silent for a moment.  “We’ll have his meeting at the Diogenes Club, in two hours.  You will pick him up,” Mycroft replied, frowning thoughtfully at the phone screen.  “Interesting.”

Anthea arched an eyebrow in a silent request for clarification.

"Jeffrey has accepted the apology, but is unable to release the footage.  He can’t even unblock my access to the cameras, he claims to have his hands tied,” Mycroft said, pocketing his phone.  “And it’s not his boss that’s restricting him.”

“Do you want me to get in touch with his boss?” Anthea asked, fingers hovering over the phone’s keyboard.

“No, I think we’ve aggravated the esteemed leader of MI6 enough for this month.  Besides, MI6 is busy enough right now, considering… recent events.  No, we’ll stop by his flat later tonight so I can ask him in person,” Mycroft replied, going back to his phone.  In the meantime, I will go to the club to think.  As untrustworthy as he is, Moran has raised some good questions.  I suspect that Moran arrived when Elizabeth was attending to Falsworth, so she knocked him out on purpose so he could be spared from Moran for however long it may be.  Perhaps Lestrade will be able to shed some more light on the matter.”  Mycroft remained silent for a few minutes, but then he said, “I don’t know what is going on here, but looking at another angle will help.  It’s high time that this nonsense has stopped and _someone_ is brought to the courts to pay their dues.”

“Of course, sir,” Anthea replied quietly, eyes flickering out the back window as though to check for any unwanted pursuers. 

Mycroft knew now that Jeffrey had had a hand in this, whatever it was that Falsworth had been up to lately, there could be no other way that the sniper had gotten this far without getting caught already.  Lestrade might be able to name any other participants, considering that he was working closely with Watson, and then Mycroft made a mental note to find the American that Moran had mentioned. 

After all, while Tom ‘Rat’ Reynolds was known for selling weapons, a cheaper commodity he also (unintentionally) handed out to his wide range of clients was information. 

_“Had to get in touch with Jim’s second in command for the next plan of action, and he was useless.  Just told me to carry on with the original plan.”_

_“I wish I could take credit for that, but I can’t.  I wouldn’t have to owe any favors otherwise.”_

That was what worried Mycroft the most.  He, along with Sherlock, had assumed that Moran himself was the second in command.  Falsworth and Sherlock had both reported at the end of the first year that each component of Moriarty’s network kept referring to Moran as the new leader; news of Moriarty’s death had spread unusually fast in the criminal underworld.

But Moran himself admitted to reporting to a higher power, one that had already interfered with the game here in London.

For a moment, Mycroft deliberated over whether to pass that along to MI6, anonymously of course.  There was no telling if the new leader was going to come back to make hell for everyone else, but at the moment, Mycroft had the bigger problem of Falsworth’s illicit activities and the three unexplained deaths of his brother, Demonde, and Adair.

The new leader could wait.

Mycroft had more problems closer to home at the moment.

 


	11. Case?

“…and take the bloody dog with you.”

“Not without Watson’s permission, I won’t.”

Silence, and then, “I will _pay_ you to take the dog.”

“On top of everything else you owe me?  Forget it.”

Two distinctly male voices made their ways into John’s foggy brain as he slowly came to in a darkened room.  For one panic-filled moment, he thought he was back at 221B just days after Sherlock’s ‘suicide’ and the last three years had been a mere dream; that night had been the last time he’d gotten a decent night’s sleep in years.  But then he saw the unfamiliar blinds, then dusty nightstand (sans phone), and the corner of the unfamiliar duvet that had been tucked around his frame. 

Then it all rushed back to him.

St. Bart’s.  Tom.  Falsworth.  Molly.  Escape.  Baker Street.  Paramedics.  Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

John felt his throat almost close up on him again at the (rather vivid) memory of seeing his dead best friend last night.  He wondered if he’d finally cracked under the strain of too many hopes, false acceptances and secret, strong belief that Sherlock was actually alive, and then forced himself to remember Mycroft’s final gift of Sherlock’s phone, the one that was sitting in 221B somewhere.  John had had to put on the mantelpiece to keep Gladstone from sinking sharp teeth into the plastic. 

_Gladstone… where is he?_

Despite his still-throbbing head, John forced himself up and moved to sit on the side of the bed.  He could still hear two voices from down the hall, one of them strangely familiar, which were now bickering over how much money one owed the other.  Looking around, he easily recognized the master bedroom of the flat that had been his temporary prison recently (how long had he been sleeping?), but it still looked as though John had been the only person to really step foot in there.  Gritting his teeth (and wishing he had something to defend himself if the two owners of the voices wished him harm), John forced himself up and out of bed, limping toward the door while using the walls as an impromptu crutch.

“Gladstone?” he called softly down the hall.  “Where are you, boy?”

The two voices abruptly stopped, and silence reigned throughout the flat.  Then there was a _thump_ , and the pattering of feet thudding down the hall as Gladstone bounded out from the direction of the living room and down the hall, yipping as he barreled straight into John’s legs, nearly sending the doctor to the ground.  John managed to brace himself enough so that he could kneel down and rub Gladstone’s back, but immediately straightened when he heard light footsteps coming down the hall.

At first, John thought it was Sherlock approaching him; the man had the dark short hair and the imposing bearing.  But then he realized that while the man had the distinctive Holmes eye-color, the newcomer was actually slightly shorter and slightly thinner than both Sherlock and Mycroft.  He also appeared much younger than John remembered Sherlock, and was adjusting his glasses when John made eye contact with him.  The final thing that sealed the deal was that Gladstone wasn’t attacking this man.

For a moment, neither man said anything. Then John said, “I take it you’re the latest jailer?”

Rude, especially when confronting a stranger whose status in the apparently invisible hierarchy was unknown, but John’s patience was worn thin. 

“Actually, no.  I’m heading back to work once I know the two of you won’t murder each other in my absence,” the man replied calmly as he brushed some dog hair off the sleeve of his tan cardigan.  “I was merely going to ask if you needed assistance to the living room, Doctor Watson.  My sister used a mild sedative on you to help you sleep after you passed out last night in the front hall.  I think it might have worked a little too effectively,” he added, calmly looking up at John again.

John just stared at him.  “And you are?” he prompted. 

The man offered his hand, and said, “Jeffrey Bradford.  You saw my older sister, Elizabeth, last night.”

“And you already know who I am,” John said, warily accepting and shaking Jeffrey’s hand as the headache in his head increased slightly.  He stifled a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Last night then… it actually happened?  Sherlock is…” it hurt to finish the sentence, especially if he was so, so wrong.  “Sherlock is alive then?” he finally managed to say.

“Yes.  He’s in the living room, on the couch.  Doctor’s orders, your dog managed to get another bite out of him before I arrived,” Jeffrey said, approaching John.  Before the doctor could properly react, Jeffrey ducked underneath the arm that John was using to brace himself against the wall and wrapped it around his own shoulders.  Like Sherlock, Jeffrey had a wiry strength that was hidden underneath a skinny physique, making John wonder if that was another family trait or Jeffrey just happened to be in a high-risk job similar to Sherlock’s that required an extra level of deception.  “Now as tempting as it is to kill Sherlock right now, please refrain from doing so until he’s paid me back,” Jeffrey said as he assisted John down the hall to the living room.

“What does he owe you?” John asked, bemused at the entire situation.

“Seven hundred and thirteen quid for various expenses,” Jeffrey replied without missing a beat as he eased John into the living room, pausing long enough to allow Gladstone in first.  John watched as Gladstone made a beeline for the edge of the couch, where _he_ was lying down.

Sherlock Holmes was stretched out on the couch, wearing a T-shirt and jeans that were slightly loose on him.  Bandaged leg elevated, he silently watched as Jeffrey eased John into the armchair across the room from the couch, and then Jeffrey headed over to other armchair and picked up his tablet again.  Gladstone sat down right in front of the couch, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move.

John didn’t care.  Sherlock could sweat it out a little longer with the dog that was sitting right there in front of the couch.

It took him a few minutes to bring his fluctuating temper under control long enough to ask, “How?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered back to him, but before John could repeat the question, he said, “I know you were ready to kill Falsworth because he kept saying ‘I’ll tell you later’, but Jeffrey wanted plausible deniability in exchange for assisting us.”  Now that John was closer, he could hear the scratchiness in Sherlock’s throat, and knew that illness was about to descend yet again if it hadn’t already. 

“Like I said, now that I know you’ll both be fine for now, I’ll be gone soon,” Jeffrey said without looking up from the tablet, where his fingers danced across the screen.

“What did you tell your boss? Sherlock asked, twisting slightly to look at Jeffrey.

“I just took a sick day, didn’t bother with excuses.  There are enough personnel at work at the moment to keep everything running smoothly, they’re hardly going to notice one person missing,” Jeffrey said without looking up, fingers flying across the tablet.  “If you need anything else, you’ll have to remind me on my way out.”

“I already did,” Sherlock muttered in an achingly familiar sulky tone.

“And I already told you that I wasn’t going to do anything without Doctor Watson’s approval.  And considering the depth of the hole you still have to dig yourself out of, I suggest you follow my example,” Jeffrey replied, glancing first at John and then at Sherlock.

“What would you need my approval for?” John cut in, tired of being kept out of the loop.

“Watching Gladstone while you and Sherlock finish this business with Colonel Moran once and for all.  Granted, I do have a cat at home, but she’s more than capable of taking care of herself,” Jeffrey replied.  “As much as I _hate_ agreeing with Sherlock, Gladstone would be safer if removed from the front lines so to speak, but it is completely up to you of course.”

“I just don’t want to get bitten _again_ ,” Sherlock snapped from his place on the couch. 

“Shut up.  You asked for it both times,” Jeffrey countered.  “Threatening poor John like that in the hospital, I’m shocked that Falsworth walked away with his ankles and shins intact.” He glanced at John and said, “He needs to stay off his feet for several days, at least.  Any movement might aggravate the wounds, and create scarring.  Elizabeth left medication in the top cabinet; she’s hoping that as a certified doctor, you’d be able to handle it.  She doesn’t trust Sherlock right now.”

“What a coincidence, neither do I.  How are you two related again?” John asked, focusing completely on Jeffrey.

“His mother is my father’s younger sister,” Sherlock replied, adjusting himself on the couch.  “He has two older sisters, the oldest being the most sensible.”

“Well, when you disappear for years on end, mothers tend to get a little tetchy,” Jeffrey said offhandedly.  “Just like yours will be once she finds out what you and Mycroft did.  Then she’ll be angrier that you got Falsworth, both of our older cousins, and then my sister and me involved.  We’ll all be ripped to shreds,” he added, scowling at Sherlock.

“And you’re the exemplary son, already looking for a girlfriend to continue the line?  Oh, and is your mum aware of all that _hacking_ you do on a daily basis?” Sherlock shot back.

“Hah, no.  And ‘all that hacking’ is perfectly sanctioned thank you very much,” Jeffrey shot back.

It was almost like watching Mycroft and Sherlock bicker again.  “Listen, as much as you probably wish to continue bickering, I need someone to explain to me what the hell is going on right now,” John cut in, shutting both cousins up.  “I don’t care who explains it, but please just knock it off and _start talking.”_

Jeffrey bristled, and made a visible effort to bite back whatever it was he was about to say.  Swallowing, he said, “In which case, I will take my leave.”  Standing up, he turned the tablet off and stuffed it back into the satchel John hadn’t noticed.  “I should be heading back anyway, before someone notices that-”

_Knock, knock._

The three men froze at the sound of the knocking at the door, Jeffrey turning visibly pale.  Sherlock was quiet for another three seconds before whispering furiously, “Whom did you tell about this?”

“No one, I swear.  It’s not my fault that I have to work with over-glorified tracker dogs who won’t leave me alone even though I already give them expensive toys to break!” Jeffrey snapped back.  Muttering under his breath, he said, “Wait here.”  Then he headed into the hall.

John heard a hushed argument at the front door, and then Jeffrey reappeared.  “Damn him, he won’t leave me alone even if the fate of England depended on it,” Jeffrey grumbled as he snatched the black parka off the chair.  “I’m just a minor employee too, I’m supposed to be invisible,” he grumbled as he collected his satchel and mobile.

John thought of Gladstone.  As much as he wanted to keep the dog with him, he knew that the pup would be better off in a stable environment with someone who worked the stereotypical eight to five workday.  On top of that, the dog would be safe, which John wanted as well.  “Jeffrey, you mentioned earlier you could watch Gladstone?” he said, looking up at the other man.

Jeffrey nodded.  “I’d just need to take any dog supplies you might have brought with you,” he said. 

John nodded before pulling himself up, pleased that he was under his own power again.  “Thank you, for offering to take him,” he said as the two of them walked down the hall back to the master bedroom.

“Mm, it’s no problem.  Missy is a poor security system anyway, she’s gotten too used to the _big lug that breaks into my flat every other week,_ ” he said, raising his voice as they walked past the short entrance hall, where the door to the flat was still shut.  “Does Gladstone make a habit of attacking strangers?” he asked as John reached into the backpack he’d brought with him and pulled out Gladstone’s things along with the leash that was sitting on top of the dresser. 

“Unfortunately, do you have many visitors?” John asked, handing the things over to Jeffrey, who shrugged.

“Theoretically, in my line of work, the answer is supposed to be no.  But, well, one of the people I have the great misfortune of working with has deemed my flat to be a suitable place to crash at ever since our boss threatened to harm him if he ever showed up at her place again.”  Jeffrey glanced at John, saw the bemused expression, and then said; “I decided to follow the Holmes tradition of working somewhere where a certain level of insanity and patience is a requirement.”

“Ah, got it.”

“Yeah.”

After collecting Gladstone’s supplies from John, Jeffrey sighed.  “I suppose I better get going before my companion thinks you all have murdered me or something like that,” he said.  Glancing down the hall, he said, “Try not to kill each other until everything is over, I’ll try to provide assistance where I can.  Sherlock knows this, but my assistance will be limited since someone else commands my attention at the time being.  I can get you any kind of tech you might need, including computers.  Send an email along, and I’ll try to get it to you as soon as I can.  If you need medication, mention that as well and Elizabeth will drop it off, she’s the prescription supplier around here.  And doctor, in the off chance you refuse to assist with medical care,” Jeffrey said, accepting the leash from John even as Gladstone tugged on it. 

“No, I’ll take care of him, God knows I’ve been doing it long enough,” John said tiredly, a small smile flickering on his face as he remembered their past cases. 

Jeffrey nodded, visibly pleased as the two of them stopped in the entrance hall.  “Don’t worry about Mycroft and the CCTV cameras, I stole those from him almost two years ago over a petty dispute.  No one else really knows that I’ve kind of monopolized access to them, and I’ve just been using them to keep track of Sherlock.”

“How long have you known that he was alive?” John asked, wondering if he was the last person to find out about Sherlock.

“About a year, ever since he faked his death in New York.  Turned out Mycroft’s security staff had a mole, one that informed Moran of Sherlock’s survival after the initial jump.  Sherlock and Falsworth came to me after returning to London, told me why they had to keep Mycroft out, and we made a deal,” Jeffrey explained right as his phone beeped.  Frowning, he pulled it out and studied the message that had popped up.  “Hm, speak of the devil.”  Stuffing the phone back into his pocket, he said, “Well, call me before you come to pick Gladstone up, I’ll keep an eye on him.  I won’t leave until you leave the hall, the less people who see you, the better.”

“Very well, thank you for everything,” John said.  He smiled sadly as Gladstone let out a whine once it realized that John wasn’t coming.  “It’s all right Gladstone, I’ll be coming to get you soon,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.  Gladstone merely whined again, and John reluctantly stepped out of sight so Jeffrey could leave.  He faintly heard another man say: “What is that?” and Jeffrey reply with “ _That_ is a dog.  He’s actually welcome.”  The brewing argument dissipated though once Jeffrey firmly shut the door behind him. 

John took a few minutes to close his eyes and collect himself.  Then he turned and headed back to the living room, where Sherlock was standing now.  The other man was favoring his good leg, but John didn’t feel any remorse about it at the moment.

There was a moment of silence between the two of them.

John broke the silence first.  “First the girlfriends, now the dog,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Both of which aren’t permitted back in 221B,” Sherlock replied calmly.

“Gladstone loves 221B,” John countered.  “He’s not going, he hasn’t done anything extremely stupid like _jump off a bloody hospital, force me to watch, and then show up three years later like nothing happened!”_

Sherlock let out a derisive sniff.  “It was for a case, John,” he replied almost automatically.

This time, John didn’t hold back when he drove his fist toward Sherlock’s face.

* * *

“Well, I guess Irene Adler was right about one thing.”

John glared across the room at Sherlock from over the top of the newspaper.  The detective was once again lying on the couch, an ice pack pressed up against his eye as he finished adjusting his bandaged leg on the stack of pillows.  “What, is she alive too?” John snapped.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John could just see the denial forming on his lips.  But then Sherlock cringed, and then swallowed his words back down.

Which was enough of an answer for John.

“Oh, for God’s sake.  You’re impossible.  Did you know the entire time or did you recently find out?” he demanded, lowering the paper to see Sherlock’s expressions better.

Sherlock was guiltily quiet for a few moments before he said, “I knew the whole time, even when you told me that she’d died.”  He turned his head slightly to glance at John.  “If you’re going to be angry at anyone about that, be angry at me.”

John sighed, feeling the adrenaline slowly draining out of his system.  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “Sherlock, I’m already angry at you for faking your death, trust me when I say you don’t want me even more angry with you.”  Looking up at the detective, he said, “Do you have _any idea_ what I went through while you were gone?  You may not have needed anyone, but if you hadn’t wanted me around, you could have just _said_ something.  There was no need to _do_ that…” John caught himself as the memories steadily returned, pesky little things he’d shoved to the back of his mind that horrible day. 

“John?” Sherlock sounded tentative, almost nervous even.  John looked back up at the other to find Sherlock looking nervous, almost wary even.  “John, that’s not why I jumped…”

“What was it then, the media?  I did warn you, Sherlock, that they would eventually turn against you,” John said, folding the newspaper horizontally in his agitation; Sherlock seemed to flinch slightly at the crackling noise. 

But that didn’t stop him from sitting up to get John’s attention.  “John, _listen to me_.  Jeffrey is gone now, there’s no one here except you and me.  I can explain _everything_ now,” he snapped back, his voice cutting into John’s growing tirade and effectively shutting the army doctor up. 

John glanced at the clock – 11:24 – and then turned back to Sherlock.  “All I want to know is _why_.  Why did you do it, and why in God’s name did you make me watch?”

“Like I said earlier, it was part of the case!” Sherlock tensed, as though expecting John to come after him again like he’d done earlier.  “I did not realize that you would react…that strongly.”  Frowning and tilting his head, he asked, “Why did you react that strongly, when we just flatmates?  You were angry at me before.”

John _almost_ rolled the newspaper to whack his old flatmate in the head, but then reminded himself that further injury would be detrimental to Sherlock’s healing progress at a time where he needed the detective to be at his best.  That and he was starting to get irritated with Sherlock’s (good) attempts at distracting him.  “Start from where this crazy plan started, right now.  I’m willing to listen, but that’s all I can guarantee right now,” he said.

Sherlock nodded, his hands folding into his classic ‘thinking’ pose.  “It was after the Pool,” he said, staring determinedly at the ceiling.  “Moriarty had shown me that Baker Street was not safe.  After the game through London, I had wondered how else Moriarty would reach me.  How could I stop him?  We were equals on the battleground, the situation at the time called for subterfuge.  I needed a way to gain access into his world and start undermining him from there.  So I went to the only person I could think of that would possibly have access into that sort of world.”

“Mycroft.  Falsworth said he waited outside the room, standing guard,” John said, recalling Falsworth’s words. 

“He told you a bit?  That’s good… Mycroft and I came up with contingency plans, and the primary one was to simply go on as though nothing had happened.”  Sherlock glanced at John and said, “Incidentally, not too long after, Mycroft caught wind of several illegal projects going on at Baskerville, asked his minion there to do some quiet investigating.  He sent Falsworth to collect the bottles that had little samples of Frankland’s serum, and Falsworth was _supposed_ to give them to me so I could analyze them.”

“You knew about that stuff _before_ we even _went_?” John said, looking shocked.  “And you took how long to solve the case?”

“I thought the two instances were unrelated.  Mycroft was merely taking care of some business in his sector, I was trying to figure out who had changed Moriarty’s mind to kill us,” Sherlock replied.  He hesitated, turning to face the ceiling again.  Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Initially, you were supposed to come with me.  Undercover.  That way Moriarty couldn’t use me against you or vice versa.  We’d pretend to carry on as usual, but still be working to undermine and bring Moriarty down.  The initial phone call, and the subsequent case with Irene Adler, showed me that Moriarty wasn’t working alone.”

John remained silent, processing this.  “What changed?” he finally asked, his voice just as quiet.

“Mycroft called me one night, the night before Adler returned.  Said his security chief had come across security footage in the United States of Moriarty’s minions at work.  It had taken Mycroft’s team some time to identify everyone, but the video was of an interrogation session.”  Sherlock glanced at John.  “The victim was an MI6 double-oh agent, he’d been working undercover to hunt down another suspect when he was caught.  He cracked after three weeks of torture.”  Turning back to the ceiling, Sherlock said, “MI6 double-ohs are the best of the best.  They kill in the name of Queen and country, and if caught, are expected to hold their peace… forever if necessary.  For this one, they kept him barely alive, and then killed him when they were done and had what they wanted.  If they could make a double-oh crack, what chance would you have?”

John didn’t reply to this, just kept a steady gaze on Sherlock.

“Mycroft, shockingly, had more faith in you than I did at the moment.  He seemed to think that if you could give a convincing enough lie, it would satisfy Moriarty’s men into either releasing you or at the very least _sparing_ you.  He said he’d ‘take care of it’,” Sherlock replied.

John realized it almost immediately.  “When I told you Irene Adler was in the witness program.”

Sherlock smirked.  “I didn’t understand your agitation at the moment, increased heart rate, blinking eyes, and other signs of anxiety.  Then Mycroft called me a little while later, inquired as to how it went.” He sighed, and then said, “He lied to you to lie to me, which for me was the truth.  He knew of course, he’d had a team monitoring Adler for quite some time.  I just didn’t know that _he_ knew.  That was the test he’d promised.”

“But he also told me that only you could pull something off without him knowing,” John pointed out.

“As I did in New York.  A necessity.  Baskerville turned out to be the tests I hadn’t gotten around to conducting at the flat.  Obviously I couldn’t tell you that, you didn’t know about the samples Falsworth retrieved.”  Sherlock hesitated, and then added, “It was while we were there that Mycroft’s teams finally located Moriarty, and MI5 was tasked with retrieval; he had apparently stayed within the city the whole time.”

“And then he was interrogated, during which Mycroft told him about you,” John said, recalling the time when he’d found a copy of _The Sun_ with the preview of the tell-all.

“Mycroft said more than we agreed he would,” Sherlock replied, still unmoving from his position.  “Accident, of course, but it left us in a little more of a vulnerable position than I would have liked.  But then Moriarty’s first act, once free, was to strike back at Mycroft.”

John’s head snapped up.  “How did he do that?  Did anyone get hurt… or die?”

“No.”  Something flickered in Sherlock’s eyes before he said; “Mycroft’s security chief was walking home during the evening rush when he was ambushed from behind.  It happened so quickly that even to this day, he still can’t remember how it happened.  Lucky for us, and for him, Moriarty underestimated just exactly how much damage the chief could do with just a mobile phone.  MI6 was on the way by the time the second phase of the interrogation began, but Moriarty didn’t know that quite yet.”

“Was the chief all right when they found him?” John asked.

“Yes and no.  He turned up all the way in Vienna of all places.  They’d conducted the first part of the interrogation on the flight over, and the second part began right as MI6 arrived to Austria.  Jeffrey had superficial injuries when they found him, Moriarty relied on psychological tactics, but he will never come within visual distance of an airplane ever again,” Sherlock said finally.

John stared at him.  “Wait, your cousin, Jeffrey Bradford, was working for Mycroft?”

“Why wouldn’t he?  He is excellent with technology and he needed a job, and Mycroft would need a chief that he could explicitly trust.  Family counted.  From what I understand though, it was this kidnapping, and then my subsequent ‘death’ that led to the major fall-out between the two of them.  But at that moment, he had no qualms about assisting me in the jump, even going as far as to craft fake surveillance images in the off chance you would demand to see the CCTV footage.  He obviously doesn’t work for Mycroft now though.  He received a better offer from MI6 even though he’d switched security clearances around on the higher-ranking personnel in retaliation for something one of the agents said to him during the rescue,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“What happened after that?  We’re at the trial now, aren’t we?” John asked, silently refusing to use the jump as a time marker.

“Yes.  Now-”

_Beep, beep, beep!_

Both Sherlock and John looked down at the mobile that was perched on the table next to the lamp.  “Jeffrey, he’s the only one with the number,” Sherlock said, reaching for it and typing in the four-digit passcode.  “Text message, apparently Moran has been apprehended by New Scotland Yard.  Lestrade will be handling the interrogation,” he said, frowning.

“That’s good, right?  Falsworth said he was the last of Moriarty’s men.  You can come back from the dead now, and finish explaining what the bloody hell happened,” John said, leaning back in the armchair.  He wasn’t planning on forgiving Sherlock until he’d heard the whole story, in which case forgiveness still depended on Sherlock’s words. 

Trust was going to be its own separate issue.

Sherlock shook his head.  “Moran knows I’m alive, there’s no way around it anymore.  This means that for him, the job’s not done yet, and he’s the last man,” he said, sitting up straight and reaching over the side of the sofa his head had been resting on. 

“What are you talking about?” John asked, frowning.

Sherlock let out a harsh laugh, startling John.  “You really didn’t think that with Moriarty’s death, he would have stopped?  No, he left his last orders for Moran and the others, to finish his last great act,” he said, pulling out what suspiciously looked like a walking cast of sorts.  _An air cast_ , John realized as Sherlock carefully placed it on his leg before reaching over to ease a boot on.

“You shouldn’t be walking,” John said, knowing already it was a futile effort to stop Sherlock.

“Will you be coming or not?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John’s remark completely.

“Well, given that you can’t properly walk, run, or otherwise move, someone has to make sure you don’t screw it up even more.  And I did promise your cousin I would keep an eye on you,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “But do not think for a minute that I’m done with you.”

“Of course not, I wouldn’t ever expect any less of you in that regard,” Sherlock said with a straight face before pulling his other boot on. 

“Now will you please explain why it’s bad that Moran is going to New Scotland Yard?” John said as he got up.

“Because Moriarty had threatened me with the deaths of the three people closest to me, and Lestrade was one of them,” Sherlock said grimly.  “Jeffrey said that Moran’s going to Scotland Yard without a fuss, which means he _wants_ to go there.  I believe he means to kill Lestrade while he’s there.”

 


	12. Strike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Warning:  There is violence in this chapter. **

Officer Ridley of New Scotland Yard said nothing as the van containing the prisoner ( _wanted internationally, if the file was accurate, the Americans were going to throw a temper tantrum once they figured out that the English got to Sebastian Moran first)_ pulled up to the curbside.  He glanced at Sally Donavan, who had recently transferred from the crime investigations department ever since the disgrace that came with Lestrade’s temporary downfall affected her in a negative way.  Apparently blowing the whistle on the DI’s activities with the Holmes character wasn’t enough to save her from the superintendent’s fury, and even the new superintendent had yet to readjust her situation even though he’d claimed to have reviewed the files of all those involved with the kidnapping case of the American ambassador’s children.  That review evidently had been the only thing that kept Lestrade’s own career on the line.  Her cohort, Anderson, had also gotten away scot-free somehow and was still working in forensics with a slap to the wrist.

For now, anyway.

“Keep an eye on him, we are not going to lose him because of carelessness,” Donovan ordered, and Ridley nodded obediently.  “I’ll be right back, I’m going to make sure that the interrogation room is ready,” she added before leaving the loading dock behind the station, the van coming to a complete stop.

The van doors swung open less than a minute later, and the specialized forces team bundled a trussed and tired-looking Colonel Moran out of the back.  “Interrogation Room 3B, the Detective Inspector wants to interrogate him before MI6 has their chance to interrogate him,” the captain of the team said as Ridley closed a hand around Moran’s handcuffs and placed a hand on the sniper’s shoulder.

“Of course, sir.”

Two other officers helped Ridley escort Moran to the specified interrogation room.  Ridley didn’t say a word until the quartet had arrived to the room.

“I can finish tying him up, you two go inform Lestrade that the prisoner is here,” Ridley said, gesturing to the helpless sniper.  “Everything will be ready when he gets here.”

“Are you sure?” one of the other officers, someone whose name Ridley never bothered to learn, asked.

Ridley looked pointedly at the sniper.  “He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Very well,” the officer replied, and then left, his friend leaving with him.

“I hope ‘soon’ will come to mean in the next thirty to forty-five minutes, I do have a schedule to keep,” Moran drawled as soon as the interrogation room door shut with a snap.  Ridley was glad he’d double-checked to make sure that the usual security cameras and taps were all operating on loops before Moran arrived.

“It all depends on the detective inspector.  He has recently returned from what he’s termed as a ‘hostage situation’, and has been finishing up the last of the neglected paperwork all morning.  He may make you wait as a means of intimidation,” Ridley said, kneeling so that he was behind the chair, level with the handcuffs.  “They tied you up well.”

“Apparently doctors don’t take it well when you carry a gun into a hospital,” Moran replied, sounding bored.  “What do you have for me?”

“Just a handgun.  I will be the security guard outside the door,” Ridley replied as he undid the handcuffs, and handed a spare firearm to the sniper.  “Keep it behind your back, or he’ll noticed right away.”

“I’ll keep it under the table, it’ll be easier that way,” Moran replied, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had chafed the skin.  Setting the gun on his lap, just underneath the table, he said, “Put the cuffs back on, but don’t lock them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your payment for your services will be delivered electronically at the end of the workday,” Moran said as Ridley obeyed his earlier order.  “As will a nice bonus for your silence and cooperation.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your employment under Jim ends today.  If you wish to renew the contract, do let me know by this evening.  New boss, new rules,” Moran said, rolling his eyes as he tested his reflexes with pulling the gun out from underneath the table. “Anyway, don’t worry if the actual assassination takes a little time, I want to see if Lestrade knows something I don’t first, then I’ll take care of him.”  He glanced at Ridley, who was standing up again, and asked, “Did you hear anything else of note?”

“Not really, sir.  Just that the superintendent is keeping a closer eye on Dimmock as well now, mostly because he’s still pursuing the Adair, Demonde, and Holmes case,” Ridley replied.

“Holmes as in the cousin that supposedly died in New York, right?  The target’s cover identity?”

“Yes, sir.”

Moran nodded, placing his hands back underneath the table.  “I really can’t wait to check up on that one,” he muttered under his breath.  “Falsworth’s doctor never returned to wake him up, or at least she didn’t before the police showed up.”  He shrugged and said, “Doesn’t matter.  Falsworth would never have shot Sherlock; he doesn’t have the guts to betray his employer.  Never did.  If it’s his MO though, then it’s conceivable that he and Holmes set it up _just_ to throw me off the trail.  Holmes wouldn’t trust anyone else to fake murder him except himself or the doctor.  He’s already done one and couldn’t do the other, so he had to make do with the next best thing.”  Looking up at Ridley, he said, “Go get in position, just so that Lestrade doesn’t walk in on one of his own conversing familiarly with a prisoner.”

Ridley nodded and obediently left the interrogation room.

* * *

“Sir?”

Lestrade looked up from his desk, the coffee having been completely useless in waking him up.  He was still tired from yesterday’s events, and the police report detailing the incident at 221B Baker Street and John’s subsequent disappearance was doing nothing to soothe his nerves.  His secretary however didn’t flinch when his head snapped up.  “What is it?” he asked.

“A Miss Anthea wishes to speak with you concerning her employer, Mr. Mycroft Holmes.  Apparently you requested a meeting with him?” the secretary said, her voice ending in a question as she waited for clarification.

Right.  Lestrade had forgotten.  “Is she here now?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.  She’s waiting in the lobby.”

“Send her up then,” Lestrade said, glancing back at his paperwork.

The secretary hesitated, and then said, “She informed the receptionist that you are to go with her.”

Thank God that Lestrade was familiar with Mycroft’s tricks, having been kidnapped once or twice when he first started working with Sherlock.  “Nuh-uh.  I am not going anywhere today, not after the last couple days.  Tell Anthea that it concerns someone named ‘Colin Falsworth’, an employee of her boss’s, and that I’m not going with her anywhere.”  Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.  “I’m assuming that Moran will be ready for interrogation soon?”

“Actually, he’s ready right now,” the secretary admitted.

Lestrade hesitated, weighing his options.  On one hand, he did have a limited time frame with Moran before other interested groups came sniffing around to snatch him away, and he had some questions for the man.  On the other, he needed to tell Mycroft that his minion was working for someone else now, and John was in danger.  It pained him to admit he was going to need help from the very man that John once accused of (inadvertently) helping Moriarty kill Sherlock. 

“Please inform Miss Anthea that her boss will have to wait, I already had this interrogation scheduled before Moran even arrived, and can’t miss it.  Tell her that I apologize to her boss for having to reschedule our meeting, but it is critical that we have it,” Lestrade said, closing the folder on the last stack of paperwork that he’d just been working on earlier that morning. 

She nodded before leaving.

Lestrade sighed before collecting a few items before leaving his office.  “Fisher, I’ll be back, keep everyone in line until I do,” he said to Donovan’s (temporary?) replacement.  The other man merely nodded before returning to work. 

Lestrade glanced to make sure his office door was locked before leaving the room, heading to the elevator to get to the interrogation rooms below.

* * *

“Do I want to even know where you got this cab?” John asked as he drove to the Yard as close to speed-breaking laws as he dared.  Sherlock, back in his cabbie disguise, was double-checking a gun he’d procured from the satchel in the master bedroom.  He’d thrown a brown jacket over the T-shirt, and, with the blond hair, looked even less like the detective that John had lived with for eighteen months.  John was just content to have the familiar weight of the Browning at his side again.

“You mean you don’t recognize it?  I suppose it would make sense if you didn’t, you didn’t actually ride in it before.  This was Jefferson Hope’s cab, Kelley found it for me and removed the registration records from the database,” Sherlock said nonchalantly as he leaned over to check the boot that was helping keep the air cast in place. 

“Jeffers- you mean that cabbie from ‘A Study in Pink’?” John said, doing a double take as he frantically searched the dashboard for any signs of the former serial killer while trying to drive at the same time.

“Yes.  It was taken in as evidence and Kelley found it in storage not too long after I asked him to keep an eye out for a car I could use once I returned to London.  No one notices the cabbie, remember?” Sherlock said, straightening again.

It took John another second to catch the name.  “Kelley?  The same Kelley who is the superintendent of New Scotland Yard?  How many people are helping you?” he demanded, glaring at Sherlock.

The adrenaline of the new chase seemed to have erased all signs of illness from Sherlock, because he was moving and speaking quickly.  “Relax John, it’s just like the homeless network, except in higher places as well as low.  Robert Kelley got his position with Mycroft’s blessing so that he could keep an eye on Lestrade and the rest of the Yard, Elizabeth Redding and Molly Hooper have handled all medical concerns up until now.  Despite his claim otherwise, Jeffrey had a suspicion that I survived when Mycroft asked him to gimmick the CCTV footage the day I jumped, but he found out for sure after New York.  He’s handled everything that has electronic access, including procuring passports.  It’s all about connections,” Sherlock said, leaning against his seat to rest.

“So all these people knew, but you couldn’t think to at least let me _know_ you were alive, just so I could move on with life at the very least,” John said, missing Sherlock’s grimace.

“It was all part of the act, John.  Genuine reactions are always the most convincing,” Sherlock replied. 

“What about after?  After the jump, but before you left the country?  You’ll never know what I went through after that, after you _forced me to watch_ …”

“I can guess,” Sherlock murmured almost too softly for John to catch. 

Before he could question it though, they soon arrived to New Scotland Yard.  “Plan of attack?” John asked, stopping the cab in front of the double-doors.

“Yes.  Charge right in and run for the interrogation rooms,” Sherlock said as John shut the engine off. 

“That’s not what I-”

Sherlock was out of the vehicle before John could finish.  Sighing, the doctor followed him, checking to make sure he still had the Browning.

The two men walked briskly into the Yard at the same time, Sherlock buzzing with impatience.  It had taken John five minutes to calm him down, pointing out that they’d both get arrested on the spot if they ran in with guns drawn demanding to see Lestrade.  John had also insisted on doing the talking: if Sherlock was still trying to remain incognito, all it would take was for one Yarder to recognize his voice.

 _Just as well_ , John thought darkly when he spotted Donovan leaning talking to the receptionist.  To his slight shock, Anthea was also standing there, looking miffed.

“Ah, excuse me?” John asked, drawing the attention from all three.  Donovan immediately became guarded, Anthea arched an eyebrow, and the receptionist just looked tired.  “Where is Lestrade?”

“He’s busy at the moment, it will have to wait a moment,” the receptionist said before turning back to Anthea.

Sherlock started walking forward as though to dress the receptionist down, like he used to do whenever someone was being stubborn, but John caught his shirt collar and pulled him back.  “Not now, we talked about this,” John muttered under his breath, ignoring Donovan’s narrowing gaze.

“No we didn’t.”

“Fine, but leave the poor woman alone and let me handle this,” John said before approaching the desk, mentally grimacing when he saw Donovan’s eyes widen as realization dawned over her; she’d seen this scene before, and she was just remembering from where.  “Listen, it’s very important that-”

“Lestrade was expecting them anyway, I’ll take them in,” Donovan said suddenly, earning a surprised glance from John.  “Follow me, please,” she instructed, ignoring Anthea as she gestured for John and Sherlock to follow her.

John silently gave Sherlock fifteen seconds before he insulted Donovan, and then he gave Donovan thirty seconds before she called them both out.  He could just _feel_ the detective struggling with the urge to keep his mouth shut behind him.

Sherlock, unpredictably, cracked first.

“Good call in choice of partners, I can’t imagine Anderson’s wife was too pleased when she found out about the two of you,” Sherlock said, staying close to John as though for protection.

“Shut up.  There’s no way you could have known that.”  Donovan abruptly whirled around to face the two of them.  “How long?” she demanded.

“Less than twenty-four hours,” John replied automatically.

“Two months,” Sherlock replied.  At John’s confused glance, he added, “That’s how long I’ve been in London now.”

“You were buried,” Donovan growled.  “ _I saw the body!_   We all did! _”_

“You saw _a_ body.  Molly Hooper’s father had died some days before I jumped; she said that we resembled each other so I did the switch then.  Remember, Sergeant Donovan, records are only as good as those who keep them,” Sherlock calmly countered with a smirk.  “Now, if you don’t mind, we need to get to Lestrade.  The whole thing is a set-up, Moran means to kill him.”

“How do you know that?” Donovan said, still bristling.

“Because it was the last thing Moriarty ever said to me before he shot himself on the roof of St. Bart’s,” Sherlock replied coldly.  “Now, if you’re only going to hinder me…”

“No, I got you out of the reception area, I’ll take you the rest of the way,” Donovan bit out before gesturing them to follow her.  She was quiet for a moment as they began walking, and then she said, “They never found the body.”

Sherlock tilted his head.  “Pardon?”

“Moriarty’s body.  When the investigation team went up to the rooftop, they just found your mobile and a puddle of a red liquid.  But no other body,” she said, risking a glance at John, who frowned. 

Sherlock muttered something under his breath.  “His minions were loyal to the end.  One of them must have removed it to discredit me further,” he said, scowling as the three of them descended the stairs to the lower levels.  “How long ago did Lestrade go down?”

“Don’t know, it’s only been twenty minutes since the prisoner arrived from St. Bart’s, an anonymous caller tipped us off to Moran’s location about half an hour ago,” Donovan said as both John and Sherlock walked faster to keep pace with her.  “Why?  Why is Lestrade in trouble?” she asked.

“Before he shot himself, Moriarty said he was going to use three people against me, and that Lestrade was one of them.  If I didn’t jump, all three would have been shot,” Sherlock said irritably.

Donovan looked shocked.  “Seriously?  I didn’t think that for one you had it in you to do something like that, and second, I didn’t realize there was even _one_ person that could be used against you like that,” she said with a snort.  “Who are the other two unlucky souls?”

John glanced at Sherlock, remembering that he’d asked a similar question earlier, but the phone had beeped before he could answer.

Sherlock let out a derisive sniff, but John still saw the slight tightening of his jaw.  “Definitely not you and Anderson,” he said brusquely before moving ahead of her. 

“Of course not us, I didn’t think it _would_ be,” Donovan shot back as she and John hurried up to catch Sherlock, who seemed to remember his way around the building now.

John attempted to catch up to Sherlock, remind him that regardless of personal feelings and grudges, Donovan did just get them past the receptionist so they could find the interrogation room.  “Where specifically is Lestrade?” he asked as the three of them went down another flight of stairs.

“Interrogation room 3B.  There’s just one guard there,” Donovan replied, pulling her gun out as she took lead as they came closer to the bottom of the stairs.  “Stay back, he knows me.”

John caught Sherlock’s collar just in time, nearly tripping the detective completely.  “Hang on, we’ll get to Lestrade, don’t worry.  Moran’s the only wild card here,” he whispered harshly as Sherlock regained his balance.  “Sally knows the guard.”

“Something’s not right,” Sherlock replied, but remained where he was regardless.  The two men watched as Donovan kept her gun behind her back as she forced herself to walk the rest of the way down the stairs.  “Something’s not right.”

“We’ll figure it out,” John whispered.  “Now shush.”

The two of them watched Donovan disappear through the door that led from the stairwell to the main hall; John managed to wedge a piece of concrete in the door to keep it from closing completely.  “Ridley,” they heard Donovan say.  “Where is Lestrade?”

“Inside, with the prisoner.”

“Step aside, Mr. Holmes is here, he wants to talk to Lestrade about something important,” Donovan ordered coldly.

“Well, she’s technically not lying,” John muttered to Sherlock, who did nothing but grip John’s upper arm tightly as though preparing to yank John somewhere as he always used to do.

_Creeeak._

The two of them looked up as Ridley opened the door to the stairwell wider, frowning at the open door.  The man paused, and then looked up at the two of them. 

For a moment, no one said anything.

John wasn’t entirely too sure of what happened next.

Sherlock, his grip tightening at the last moment, _yanked_ John up and behind him while pulling his own hidden firearm and firing right as Ridley pulled his gun out and fired.  John, still stumbling from the momentum, found himself landing on the stairs while Ridley’s corpse fell backwards to the ground.  “What the hell?” he said, twisting to find Sherlock bending down to haul him back up.  “Sherlock-”

The two men jumped as more gunfire erupted outside.  “Don’t you dare,” Sherlock growled, catching John’s arm right as the other started to move to help Donovan and Lestrade.  “Let’s go.”

“ _You shot a police officer!”_

“An informant.  Jeffrey had managed to track him down by face a few months ago.  Nothing we can do about it now.  Let’s go,” Sherlock growled, starting to head up the stairwell again.  He whipped around as soon as the stairwell door opened again with his gun up, but lowered it once he saw that it was Donovan with a rattled Lestrade.  “Don’t give me that, sergeant.  Ridley was an informant working for Moran,” Sherlock snapped at Donovan’s obvious hesitation at Ridley’s corpse.

“ _Just go!”_ Lestrade bellowed, startling even John. 

The four of them bolted up the stairs, Lestrade slamming the stairwell door behind him.  “Donovan, put this entire damn station on alert!  And get in touch with Kelley!” Lestrade barked as he easily caught up to John.  “Who is he?” he demanded, gesturing to Sherlock, who was well ahead of them.

“Explain later!” John shouted back right as Sherlock kicked the first floor door open.  “Where are we going?” he yelled as he caught up to Sherlock.

“No idea.  Making it up,” he replied, waiting by the stairwell entrance for Donovan and Lestrade to leave before slamming the door shut behind them.  H turned around, and even John was startled at the amount of people staring at them now. 

“Who the bloody hell _armed_ Moran _?_ ” Lestrade finally demanded, turning to Donovan, who quickly shook her head.  He turned to Sherlock and said, “Who the hell are you?”  Then, noticing John, he said, “Where the hell have _you_ been?”

John thought that the poor detective inspector looked more frayed than he did when they last saw each other last night.  “No time to explain, just –”

“Head upstairs right now, _everyone,”_ Sherlock barked, startling the few people still inside the reception area.  John moved to stand with Sherlock, but surprisingly Anthea was the one who caught his upper arm this time.

“Safety, Doctor Watson,” she said as John hissed at the pressure – _right in the same exact spot where Sherlock grabbed it earlier_ – but John pulled away nonetheless. 

“No, I can’t leave him on his own like this,” John said, and found that he didn’t need to clarify; he could see that Anthea knew right away whom he was actually talking about.  She hesitated.

Then Sherlock spoke.  “John, go.  _Now_.”  He glanced back at them and said, “Anthea, he’ll be making a break for the outside.   Anywhere but there.”

“Doctor Watson, let’s go,” Anthea said, and used John’s hesitation to drag him along toward another stairwell that led to the upper floors.  John was so startled that he went without complaint.

It wasn’t until he was inside the stairwell that he regained his senses and yanked his arm out of Anthea’s grip.  He made his way back to the doors, determined not to let his friend (as stupid and self-centered as Sherlock may be) die again, especially since John felt he could stop it this time.  Anthea caught his wrist right as he saw outside the small window in the door.

Moran was standing outside the door that led to the lower levels, a streak of blood across his face: Lestrade must have landed a good one on him.  Moran was also holding an unfamiliar firearm at his side, but John could see a police-issued pistol in the hip holster.  Noting that all of Moran’s attention was fixed on Sherlock, John used this distraction to ease the stairwell door open just a crack, big enough for the muzzle of his gun to fit through.  He could also hear the conversation on the other side.

_Only Sherlock would have a casual chat with his would-be killer._

“…and I’d been hoping to have this sort of conversation on a rooftop, preferably St. Bart’s,” Moran was saying by the time that John eased the door open slightly.  “You know, to make sure you actually died this time around.”

“I’m just curious as to how you figured out it was me.  I put so much thought into the disguise,” Sherlock replied with sarcasm. 

Moran snorted in disbelief.  “It wasn’t hard.  Who else would come storming into Scotland Yard right as Lestrade is about to interrogate me?”

“Good point,” Sherlock conceded.  Shaking his head, he said, “Let’s finish this now, just the two of us.”

Moran laughed softly, shaking his head.  “I think we both know how Jim would have wanted this to end.  The three go first, and then you.  _But_ …” he said, holding up a finger.  “But I’m going to shake it up a little.  I’m going to kill the three, but I’m going to let you live.  So that you can live with their deaths _every day_ and learn how us mere mortals make do in the world of emotions,” he said, his face turning into a sneer as he stepped closer to Sherlock, who stiffened but held his ground.  “And just to sweeten the trip to hell a little more… I’ll save the best for last.  Just like you did,” Moran said, his voice so soft that John almost missed it.  Raising the gun, Moran finished with, “I think I’ll start with-”

The second he exposed his flank, John fired. 

Moran roared as the bullet went straight into his side at what had to be an uncomfortable angle.  Sherlock moved to the opposite side right as Moran fired toward John and Anthea, who both immediately turned to run as soon as Moran turned to fire at them.  Anthea was surprisingly fast for a woman in heels, and even managed to stop long enough and fire back down at the doors right as Moran yanked them open.  She missed one of two shots, the second embedding itself in Moran’s arm.  He ended up stumbling backwards and out of sight as Sherlock grabbed his collar and hauled him out. 

Ducking around the corner of the stairwell, John felt Anthea crouch next to him, waiting as well.  He briefly wondered if she was uncomfortable running around in heels, or if being able to do that and still shoot a gun was an acquired talent.

Given that she worked for Mycroft Holmes, it had to be the latter.

The stairwell doors remained open, and John could hear the sounds of a scuffle just outside.  He started to go back down, to help Sherlock, but Anthea grabbed the back of his shirt.

“He can handle this, Doctor Watson,” she said quietly.

“But-”

“ _Trust_ me,” she repeated.

_Bang!  Crash!_

The two of them remained absolutely still at the sound of the gunshot followed by shattering glass and ensuing silence.  Then John shot down the stairs, kicking the door open while looking frantically for Sherlock.

The ex-detective was leaning against the reception desk, looking smug as ever.  “Crisis averted,” he said pleasantly as John turned and stared at the gaping hole in the front window.  “He may have escaped for now, but he’s also easily identifiable.  It won’t be hard for Jeffrey to track him down now,” he said, straightening to walk over and stand beside John.

“Will he still be back for Lestrade?” John asked.

“Yes.  Mrs. Hudson is with Elizabeth now, Jeffrey texted me when we were coming up the stairs after the altercation with the officer downstairs,” Sherlock replied as the door leading to the upstairs stairwell opened again, and Lestrade came out with several officers, Donovan and Anderson included.  “On the other hand, we’ve both shown our hands so there’s no more need to skulk around in the dark anymore,” Sherlock added thoughtfully as Lestrade began approaching him from behind.  “Now I can actually ask for things instead of stealing it or asking someone to steal it for me.  What do you think, Detective?” Sherlock said, turning around right as Lestrade came up behind him, ready to punch him.

“I think that for once, that is a fan _tastic_ idea,” Lestrade said.  Then he swung at Sherlock-

Who neatly ducked the blow.  “Wait for my first black eye to heal, then you may try again,” he said, walking past Lestrade, who would have fallen over if John hadn’t caught him.

“Sorry mate, I got to him this morning,” he said, helping Lestrade regain his balance. 

“I’ll just get him later.”  Lestrade turned to face Sherlock and snapped, “Where the bloody hell have _you_ been?”

“A rather _excellent_ question, don’t you think?”

John felt his stomach drop at the familiar voice as he turned sharply, even though he hadn’t heard it in quite some time.

Mycroft Holmes stood there in front of the front doors to New Scotland Yard, hands resting on his umbrella handle while Anthea lurked behind him in safety.  He looked distinctly unamused as cold eyes studied Sherlock, who merely offered him an innocent smile in return.

“Hello, brother,” Sherlock finally said.

 


	13. Backlash

“You ordered Falsworth to shoot you?”

“He made it quite clear that he wasn’t going to do it any other way.”

John glanced at Lestrade, who still looked faintly annoyed.  The two of them were locked up in Lestrade’s office with a rather angry Mycroft Holmes and an ambivalent Sherlock, leaving Anthea outside to guard the office door.  Mycroft was currently interrogating his brother, who was careful to only answer the question without providing any more answers.  As a result, it had been a long two hours of back and forth between the Holmes brothers, with Mycroft nearly losing his temper three times before he managed to pull out from Sherlock the full details of the ‘New York incident’, which evidently entailed him killing an assassin, only to have his sniper bodyguard shoot him in order to play dead for Mycroft.

“Why in God’s name would you _do that_?” Mycroft snarled.  “I almost had Falsworth charged with Demonde’s and Adair’s murders!”

“You were compromised, the assassin I killed said as much before he died.  I faked my death and staged the subsequent discovery.  Honestly, I half-expected Sher to call me out on it when he arrived to the crime scene with his companion.  Speaking of which, who chose her?  She’s a good match for him,” Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s form.  He was seated in Lestrade’s chair with his back to the wall, the entirety of the office under his scrutiny. 

“Uncle Alastair did.  Now stop changing the subject,” Mycroft snapped.  “Whose body is it then, that you sent to me?”

There was silence as Sherlock quietly regarded his brother.  John suspected that ‘Sher’ had to have been the New York Holmes that worked with Gregson.  Sherlock meanwhile leaned forward slightly and said, “We had to improvise.  The hospital in New York had a morgue too… I called Molly to tell her about our plans, and she went overseas and was able to find out from other nurses that there was a family-less man there, someone who had died alone.  She got me a set of scrubs, the man got a funeral.”

“A private one at that, too,” Mycroft replied, eye twitching slightly. 

“Leave Molly out of this if you’re seeking retribution, I did ask her to keep this from you,” Sherlock said.  “Now my question is, why was Jeffrey not working for you when I returned?  I came to London fully prepared to shift blame to him for allowing a mole into your operation only to find that he was working for Universal Exports, until he told me otherwise.”

Mycroft remained quiet for a few minutes.  “We had a major disagreement, one where Aunt Emma got involved at the end.  You know she’s never been the same after Jeffrey’s kidnapping.  Jeffrey apparently then went off for drinks with a few of his subordinates, they all got pissed, and someone had the bright idea of hacking into secure servers just to prove they could.  Jeffrey and a subordinate worked on hacking the C.I.A., but then another challenged his ability to do it on his own.”  Mycroft sighed and said, “Next thing I knew, I had an irritated MI6 on my doorstep and a security chief who was still nursing a hangover with no recollection of the night before.”

“You threw him to the wolves,” Sherlock said.

“After leading MI6 on a wild chase through the city?  Of course I did, I thought they would set him straight and there would be no more misbehavior when he returned to work,” Mycroft replied irritably.

“All the better for me, I suppose.  Once I got to London, he was very accommodating,” Sherlock replied, leaning back in his seat. 

“Sherlock,” John said with a slight warning in his tone. 

“Right.”  Sherlock paused, and then said, “Jeffrey and Elizabeth helped us get back into the country.  You weren’t paying attention to either of them anymore.  I tracked Demonde down to the complex near the Yard; he was lurking there because it happened to be on Lestrade’s route to and from home.  Moran and his remaining subordinates were confused, so they fell back on their original orders.”

“The anonymous caller on the news the other day said you were linked with nine deaths?” Mycroft replied coolly as he turned to look out the window.

“One clerk and eight snipers.  Moriarty had backups for his backups,” Sherlock replied serenely as though he’d had this conversation several times over.  “Moran was the last one left, he was Moriarty’s second-in-command.”

“No he wasn’t,” Mycroft said curtly, still not looking away from the window.  Sherlock stiffened, but otherwise remained quiet.  Lestrade looked as confused as John felt, but John waited, knowing that he’d get the full story somehow.   Even if he had to pry it out of Sherlock word for word. 

“What do you mean, he _wasn’t_?” Sherlock said finally.  “Three years, Mycroft.  I spent three years looking for-”

“I was the one who arranged for Moran’s arrest, we spoke briefly back at St. Bart’s in Falsworth’s room,” Mycroft cut in, catching Lestrade’s attention.  “He told me that he’d appealed to Moriarty’s second-in-command for leadership when you were steadily eliminating his associates.  The man apparently did not care for Moriarty’s plan, Moran called him ‘useless’, but apparently the man stepped in anyway as ‘Richard Brooke’ over the phone, from the broadcast the other day,” he explained, turning to glance back at Sherlock.  “I was going to bring that to the attention of MI6, let them handle it, but not now.”

“Has he demanded anything?  Do you think Moran is still operating under him?” Sherlock demanded, abruptly standing up.

“I cannot tell for sure since I am running on such little information, but I can assure you that the leader, for now, should not be an issue,” Mycroft said, turning back to Sherlock.  “You are back on this side of the playing field, Sherlock, and there’s no going back now that Moran has seen that you are alive and well.  I can only insure the safety of Mrs. Hudson now, no one else.”

“What about Mrs. Hudson?” John interrupted, frowning in concern.

“Mrs. Hudson was one of the three who would die if I didn’t jump.  Lestrade was the second,” Sherlock said curtly before turning back to Mycroft.  “Where is she now?”

“With her sister and Elizabeth, it was a coincidence that worked well for us,” Mycroft said.  “Now-”

“What about the third person?  You said there were three,” John said, glancing at Sherlock, whose expression was once again blank.

“Yes, well, the third person has a record of never listening to either of us in the past, and if we were to tell him, he’d insist on coming along anyway,” Mycroft said finally.  “We could try to protect him, but he’d rather it was the other way around, so I feel that perhaps it may be for the best that he remain in the dark for now,” he added, glancing over to Sherlock as though for confirmation. 

“Still, a little heads up would most probably be appreciated, I would have liked to have known what the hell was going on _before_ I arrested Moran,” Lestrade cut in.

“As much as it pains me to say this, Mycroft is… not wrong,” Sherlock said, grimacing as the words came out of his mouth.  “We’ll let the third person know once the danger has passed.”

“What if Moran gets to him first?” John countered.

“He won’t,” Sherlock replied in a cold tone, firmly implying the end of the discussion.

“The next step of course will be laying out a trap for Moran.  We will need him alive of course, to confess to the existence of Jim Moriarty and clean up any last stains on your name,” Mycroft said, glancing back at Sherlock.  “You also might want to stay away from 221B for a little while, give John and Mrs. Hudson some anonymity from the press.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I’d like to sleep in my bed again as soon as possible,” he replied, glaring at his brother.

“You actually sleep now?” John blurted, his face mirroring Lestrade’s shock.

Sherlock scowled.  “Figure of speech, John.  I’d rather be at home than anywhere else at the moment, I think I’ve done enough traveling for one year.” 

“Unless a case that’s interesting enough comes up,” Mycroft said, beating John to the punch.  “In which case, you’ll be leaving the country to go solve it.”

“Yet the only international cases are the ones you bring to my attention, which tells me you’re expecting some form of repayment for sticking what little neck you have left out for me,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at his brother.

Mycroft stiffened in indignation.  “Let me put it this way.  You do one case for me without complaint, and I will not tell Mummy about you faking your death a second time in New York.  There’s no way getting around the first time since she attended the funeral,” he said coolly.  “I explained the second funeral, after your ‘death’ in New York, as us just relocating your body to the family plot on the estate.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he silently regarded his brother.  “And if I refuse, you’ll tell Mummy about New York?” he said finally.

“And about Jeffrey’s, Elizabeth’s and Sher’s involvements,” Mycroft threatened.  “Superintendent Kelley is incredibly lucky that he is now untouchable, but I can easily surrender the names of the others to Mummy.”

John glanced at Lestrade as it dawned on him that Kelley was the reason for Falsworth’s reference to the ‘goon at the Yard that was too high to reach’.  He wondered if Lestrade felt as wearied about the subterfuge as he did right now.

Sherlock finally sighed.  “Two cases, and you keep all parties a secret?” he said, narrowing his eyes at his older brother.

John stared at Sherlock.  He never usually accepted cases from Mycroft, and had to be dragged along when they came up.  Case and point with the situation with the stolen missile plans during Moriarty’s crime spree. 

Mycroft nodded.  “Deal.  Now we need to catch Moran and be done with it.  He will not come easily now that he knows you’re alive, so we may have to use the Detective Inspector as bait, to draw him out,” he said, turning back to the window.

Lestrade raised his hand.  “The ‘Detective Inspector’ is still in the room and would like a little input on the situation,” he said, scowling.  “I don’t know if I like the idea as serving as bait, my job is nerve-wracking enough as it is and I don’t want to add a vengeful sniper to my list of people wanting my hide.”  Shaking his head, he said, “The paranoia is a little too much sometimes even on a good day, especially since I _know_ about the existence of a threat this time.”

“That’s why we’ll draw Moran out quickly, lure him out,” Sherlock said, a gleam appearing in his eye that John took to mean that he’d found something significant in a deduction.  “Moran is nothing like Moriarty, he’s a soldier, he may be a high-ranked one, but he still receives orders.  He’s used to getting orders, why else would he go to Moriarty’s second in command when he didn’t know what to do?  In other words, he’s a loose cannon right now, he’s ready to carry out Moriarty’s last commands and see me suffer for it.”

“Your point?” Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow.

“We draw him out by presenting an opportunity.  He’s no longer in doubt over whether I’m alive or not, so now that he’s sure, he’ll act the next time he catches you off guard.  So, while remaining connected, you will walk home in a couple days, presenting yourself as a target, and then I’ll strike when Moran moves against you,” Sherlock said, glancing over at the other man.  “Falsworth taught me a couple tricks.  Snipers are trained so that they can kill their target while remaining hidden, but there are still ways to spot them before they fire.”

“As Moran is unhinged right now, he may not stick to normal attack conventions,” Mycroft said, turning back around to face Lestrade.

Lestrade was quiet for a moment, puzzled  “Was that supposed to make me feel better?” he asked.  “I’m still getting shot at either way, whether the gunman is sane or not.”

“I’ll walk with you, just because I haven’t chased criminals around lately doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to use a gun,” John said, glancing at Lestrade.  He glanced back at Sherlock, who looked faintly irritated for some reason that only God knew, and said, “Lestrade stands a better chance if he has someone to watch his back.”

“Do keep in mind that we’ll need Moran alive, little brother,” Mycroft said, reclaiming Sherlock’s attention.  “A dead man cannot confess to the courts.”

“I think the primary problem would be _locating_ him,” Sherlock said.  “We can worry about testimonies later.”

“Any idea of where to start looking?” John asked.   “I suspect that he’ll be going underground now that he knows Sherlock is looking for him.”

“I could call Jeffrey, ask him to start looking.  His superior isn’t working him hard enough apparently,” Sherlock suggested.  “Elizabeth might want to take this opportunity to leave the city anyway, just in case.  I’ll talk to her today as well as Jeffrey.”

“Good luck locating him, he’s wiped all of his information from my databases,” Mycroft said, scowling.  “Even had the audacity to put 221C as his current address in the Yard’s files.”

Sherlock snorted.  “I applaud him for fooling you.”  Standing up, he grabbed his jacket and said, “Come John, we’re going to pay my cousin a quick visit.”

“What about me?” Lestrade demanded as John got up and grabbed his own jacket.

“I will assist in your transportation at the end of the day, and Anthea will stay with you for the rest of the day,” Mycroft replied before turning back to Sherlock.  “If possible, we should try to wrap up this nasty business as soon as possible.  And Jeffrey is still working right now; his boss came looking around for him earlier this morning.  So leave him alone for now.”

“We need the surveillance tapes _now_ ,” Sherlock said, stopping what he was doing to stare at his brother.   

“I’ll get in touch with Jeffrey, but we do have to keep him off Moran’s radar.  Now that you’re alive, Moran will be able to see whom you interact with.  The more you do, the more people that are at risk,” Mycroft said grimly.   “And considering what happened the last time Jeffrey crossed paths with trouble…”

“Aunt Emma threatened to have us both hanged if we ever got her baby in trouble again, yes, I remember,” Sherlock said, a touch of impatience audible in his voice.

“And while Mummy is a driving force in the Holmes clan, it is Emma who has the first claim to matriarchy, should something happen to Father and Uncle Alistair,” Mycroft finished with a little smile.

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade and said, “Be grateful that it’s just us you’ll ever have to deal with in your lifetime, and not the rest of the clan.”

“How many more of you _are_ there?” Lestrade asked, staring at Sherlock in complete disbelief.

“Enough,” Mycroft replied pleasantly.

“We will have to wait on Jeffrey to locate Moran first, and then build the trap around him from there,” Sherlock said, frowning.  “I suppose you don’t know where his flat is?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Mycroft said, frowning.  “Did you not just hear me?  Associating with him will put him, and possibly Elizabeth, in Moran’s crosshairs.”  Forcing himself to take a breath, Mycroft said, “I understand you are agitated about the third target’s safety and are eager to get this business dealt with and finished.  But if you rush, you will get everyone who helped you injured or killed.  I’m already planning arrangements for Molly Hooper to get her out of harm’s way.”  Narrowing his eyes, he said, “I deal with this situation every day with Anthea.  Out of all my employees, she is the most valuable yet most exposed at the same time.  It’s about balancing what you need done and whom you’re willing to risk in order to get it done with whom you wish to keep safe.  Falsworth knew this when he agreed to watch you for the three years you were gone.  His being in a coma is the only thing keeping him alive; I suspect that Moran will try to use him as a means of getting to us, but he can’t do that while Falsworth is unconscious or dead.”  Mycroft paused, and then said, “Why do you think I told you that caring was never an advantage?”

Silence reigned throughout the room; John was trying to think back to when Mycroft could have gotten Sherlock alone to tell him that, Lestrade looking as though for the most part, he was keeping up but needed a drink to get through the rest of it. 

“What about his wife?” Sherlock finally asked, narrowing his eyes as he sidestepped addressing Mycroft’s rhetorical question.

“Returned to the United States after delivering Doctor Watson and Lestrade to her husband, she was too frightened of the repercussions to stay in England.  I suppose that should have been my first warning, that something was going on,” Mycroft said, glancing briefly at Lestrade, who sighed.

“Very well, John and I will return to the flat.  We can do video-conferencing to coordinate everything; I don’t trust you to be the liaison between Jeffrey and me.  But if one person gets hurt, then I’m moving with or without your blessing,” Sherlock warned before gesturing for John to follow him.  “We’re leaving.”

“Just like that?” Lestrade said, twisting in his chair to watch the two of them leave.

“Yes,” came the curt reply before Sherlock left the office, startling the few officers that had been trying to casually eavesdrop. 

“I’ll call,” John whispered before ducking out into the hall after Sherlock.  It didn’t take him long to catch up, Sherlock was waiting impatiently by the staircase.  “That’s the most civil I’ve ever seen you toward your brother,” he remarked as they walked down the stairs. 

“I need his cooperation, and he knows that.  Also, if that conversation ever leaks out, you and I will never see the sun again.  Mycroft would rather murder us than ever betray the fact that he actually cared about someone else.  To him, sentimentality is a double-edged sword, one that can be wielded against others and himself, which is why he publicly separates himself from anyone else,” Sherlock explained as the two of them walked down the stairs. 

“Will Jeffrey get into trouble for helping you?” John asked as they entered the lobby again, where several custodians were cleaning up the shattered glass.

“Mycroft isn’t stupid.  He knows that Jeffrey has high-enough friends now to dish it back to him if he tries to interfere.  It drives him insane that Jeffrey knows things that he doesn’t, but he respects the fact that Jeffrey is theoretically untouchable right now,” Sherlock said brusquely as they exited the station. 

“Are we going to at least make sure the third target is safe?” John asked.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for the briefest of seconds, and then said, “Of course John, Mycroft and I have already done as much as we can for the third target.  The next move is his.”  Then, walking briskly toward the parked cab, as well as he could anyway, he added, “Now hurry, the least time we spend out here, the least time we’re exposed.  I want to get the jump on Moran while we still can.”

John decided not to point out that for one, it was hard for the third target to make his move when he was still unaware of the danger he was in, and two, he’d be shocked if they still had any advantages of Moran.  But he decided to place a little more faith in Sherlock that the detective knew what he was doing, and then followed Sherlock to the cab; he’d still have to drive, Sherlock wasn’t going to get anywhere significant with the injured ankle.


	14. Target

“You’re afraid.”

Sherlock scowled at Jeffrey, who shrugged.  As ever, his cousin was plugged into his tablet despite the fact that the two of them were sitting in the center of Trafalgar Square, with Jeffrey on the low wall of the fountain, Sherlock on the ground in front of him.  Just a little ways off, Sherlock could see his cousin’s companion, who listening to an iPhone but careful to keep the two cousins in his line of sight.  The man was solidly built and had short light blond hair, and he could have been pulling off the casual civilian look if he wasn’t tensed nor packing a weapon – Walther PPK, Sherlock guessed from seeing different firearms in the past three years – in his jacket pocket.  “How long?” he finally asked, glancing back at his cousin.

Jeffrey paused in his typing to look at the man across the square.  “Ever since MI6 found me after I hacked through their systems,” he said.  “He was the man who found me first in Vienna,” he added finally before looking back down at his tablet.

Sherlock studied the man.  “Does Aunt Emma know?”

“Yes.  Although I think she’s just too grateful that I’m finally ‘settling down’ to nitpick about no grandkids,” Jeffrey replied, shrugging with one shoulder.  “She also doesn’t have to worry about inheritance since not only am I the _third_ child, the estate is going to remain with Uncle Siger for a while now, especially if Mycroft marries his secretary.”

Sherlock nearly choked on the coffee he was sipping.  “Excuse me?”

“Life continued even though you weren’t here.  Mycroft might have gotten a little closer to his secretary, Anthea, if you know what I mean.  Now stop going off track.  If you’re not afraid, then why won’t you tell John that he was the third target?” Jeffrey asked, adjusting his glasses as he watched Sherlock. 

Sherlock merely scowled as he slumped against the wall that Jeffrey was perched on top of.  “There’s no need, I can finish this without telling him.”

“You know he’ll want to help.”

“Exactly.  I don’t want him killed while fighting against Moran,” Sherlock replied curtly, frowning as several people paused to stare.  “Why are they doing that?”

“Because last time they checked, you were dead, funeral and everything.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to tell John that he’s the third target, thus giving you a better reason to give him to stay out of harm’s way?” Jeffrey asked, pausing in his typing to look at Sherlock.  “Where is he anyway?”

“Went back to Baker Street to pick up a few things, he’s going to work with Lestrade in luring Moran out.  He knows too that Moriarty threatened to kill three people and burn my heart out if I didn’t jump, and John will know that I… _care_ if I told him he was the third target,” Sherlock said, watching as the man shadowing his cousin flirted shamelessly with a pretty young tourist.  “Are you two exclusive?”

Jeffrey glanced over.  “To an extent,” he replied.  “But let me get this straight.  You won’t tell John that he was a target because then he’ll know that you care about him, possibly more than a friend would, and you’re afraid it will drive him away?  _That’s_ why you won’t say anything?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “He’s not gay,” he replied as the tourist finally left his cousin’s shadow. 

Jeffrey sighed.  “Love is what it is,” he said before going back to the tablet.  “Think of it this way.  John will be even _more_ furious when he thinks that you couldn’t trust him enough to take care of himself when in reality you were afraid of talking about how you felt about him.  I’ve watched him from time to time, I couldn’t figure out why Mycroft was so obsessed with monitoring him after you jumped.  He’s stronger than you’re giving him credit for.  The thing is you already have a lot of trust to rebuild, you’re only going to make it worse if you don’t tell him.”

“What would you do if your partner appeared to kill himself and then show up on the doorstep years later?” Sherlock shot back, frowning.

Jeffrey shrugged.  “You mean after the initial breakdown?  I’d search for the body, and, failing in that, wait for him to show up at the doorstep and then berate him for doing it in the first place.  If I was the one who faked it, well, I’d have an obligation to return in a timely manner before he tears the place apart,” he replied, shrugging with one shoulder.  At Sherlock’s confused expression, he said, “He ‘dies’ on a semi-regular basis during missions, resurrection is something of a side hobby.  An annoying one though, it drives my superiors up the wall each time he does it.”

“I’d ask what you get up to at MI6, but I have a feeling if you won’t tell Mycroft, you won’t tell me,” Sherlock said, furrowing his brow.

“Mm.  How about a deal.  I’ll answer one question about my work _after_ you talk to John and _tell_ him everything?  And my flat is off-limits in the event of a fall out, just making that clear right now,” Jeffrey said, scowling at Sherlock. 

“I’m not going to Mycroft’s,” Sherlock countered.

“Well, you’re not coming to me either.  And while you’re talking to John, do make sure you apologize for any other transgressions.  He may not forgive you right away, but it’s a step in the right direction,” Jeffrey replied as he tapped something out on his tablet.  “And I suggest doing it _before_ you carry out this insane plan of yours.”

“Have you located Moran yet?” Sherlock asked irritably, reminding his cousin of the original reason he’d asked to meet Jeffrey out here.

“Not yet, he’s very good at remaining hidden.  To find him faster, I’d need a crack at my boss’s computer, but, well, I know better than to tempt fate at work after the stunt I pulled that got me noticed in the first place,” he replied.  “So that means no hacking my boss’s computer.”

“You’ve gotten boring since I last saw you,” Sherlock replied, scowling.

“No, just under more scrutiny.  I swear that my superior is waiting patiently for the first excuse to deal with me permanently, she hasn’t quite forgotten about the goose chase I led Her Majesty’s finest on before I made the last mistake.  Not to mention I lied to her face twice before she hired me.  So that’s why I can’t find Moran faster, but trust me when I say I am trying my hardest,” Jeffrey replied with slight irritation audible in his voice. 

“No need to be tetchy about it, I was only asking,” Sherlock replied, scowling faintly.  “Do you have Baker Street’s CCTV cameras easily accessible though?”

“Sherlock, John is a grown man.  I _think_ he can handle getting supplies without adult supervision,” Jeffrey said, lightly kicking Sherlock in the side.  “He managed to live thirty something years before he met you, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Cousin dear, don’t make me kick you for real please.  That would just annoy us both,” Jeffrey interrupted, rolling his eyes. 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, and then asked, “Are you looking at CCTV images on that?”

Jeffrey glanced at him.  “I’m not looking at John, nor am I spying for you-”

“What if Moran is at Baker Street?” Sherlock countered, knowing that once the thought was implanted in his cousin’s mind, it would bother him until he’d done something about it.

There was a moment of silence as the two cousins stared at each other.  “I really hate you sometimes,” Jeffrey growled as he looked back down at his tablet a few moments later and began pulling up the Baker Street CCTV cameras.

Sherlock merely smirked and leaned back against the fountain wall again.  His cousin’s shadow was now fiddling around the iPhone, but was otherwise ignoring them.  The lines of tension in the visible muscles however contradicted this, the man was ready to lunge at anyone or anything that threatened Jeffrey, and it was obvious from the way his back was angled toward the two of them that the man trusted Jeffrey enough to turn his back to him, a tricky thing for a hardened soldier and licensed killer.

“Um, Sherlock?”

He turned to find Jeffrey staring at the tablet, eyes wide. “Sherlock, John, Moran.  At Baker Street, right no-”

Sherlock didn’t stay to hear the rest of his cousin’s sentence.  He fluidly moved to his feet, vaguely hearing a squawk of indignation and a splash as he accidentally dislodged his cousin backwards into the fountain.  He’d hear about later for sure, assuming Jeffrey wasn’t irritated beyond all reason for the accident.

It all came down to how much damage the tablet sustained. 

“Taxi!” he said, hailing a cab as his cousin’s shadow leapt up to assist a now-irritated Jeffrey.  Sherlock shook his head when he saw that Jeffrey, while soaked through now, had managed to save the tablet by keeping it up as high as he could reach.  For all his protests to the contrary, Jeffrey was going to be fine.

Sherlock slipped into the cab and, ignoring the cabbie’s stunned expression, said, “Two, twenty one Baker Street, extra bonus if you can get there in five minutes.”

“You… you’re supposed to be-”

Sherlock groaned.  He _really_ didn’t have time for this right now.

* * *

John decided that since he wasn’t a sniper, he didn’t understand the appeal of Baker Street as a preferred sniper hangout spot.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted out the second he spotted Sebastian Moran lounging on the couch, rifle balanced across crossed knees.  Instinctively, John reached for his gun at his side.

“Now, now, doctor, starting a firefight might not be the best idea for the neighbors,” Moran replied lazily.  He appeared comfortable despite the injuries John knew he’d sustained the day before at the attack in New Scotland Yard, so he had clearly been able to find a doctor willing to treat him without asking any questions.  “Anyway, I was in the neighborhood, thought I would drop by and say hello.”

“ ‘Drop by and say hello’?” John repeated in disbelief.  “Sherlock’s not coming here, if that’s why you’re actually here.”

“That’s good to know, but he’s not the reason why I’m here,” Moran said, shrugging again before stretching, wincing at the cracks in his spine.  “My posture is going to be shot by the end of this mission,” he said, relaxing again against the couch.

“Somehow, I get the feeling that it won’t be the only thing getting shot by the end of this mission,” John muttered under his breath as he sat down carefully in the armchair.  There just wasn’t any way that he was going to get what he needed with a killer under the same roof.  Moran may have appeared relaxed at the moment, but John wasn’t stupid enough to turn his back to him anyway.  “Then if you’re not here for Sherlock,” he said finally, “Mrs. Hudson isn’t here either, and I don’t know when she’s getting back.”

Moran shrugged.  “Don’t really care about that either, I just said that to psych Holmes out.  I was only ever assigned to kill one person anyway,” he said, leaning against the couch.

“Lestrade?”

“No, the third target.  Lestrade just provides an extra challenge,” Moran replied, shrugging with one shoulder.  “Falsworth was a worthy opponent too, too bad he’s still under Mycroft’s protection.  It would have been nice to have an old ally at my side again.”

“Like Moriarty was to you?” John asked carefully. 

Moran hummed thoughtfully.  “He signed the paycheck, that was for sure, but he was a little too crazy for my tastes.  His successor is crazy too, cyanide will do that to a person I suppose, but the man lived and he’s planning to attack his enemy just as hard as Moriarty struck at Holmes,” he said.  “Lucky for me, that means I can hang around for the next job after he’s done, he’s not as obsessed with his employees as Moriarty is.”  He frowned, and then said, “Actually, I take that back.  He does have a girlfriend that he’s extremely protective of, but that’s the only one.  The finesse of an operation’s execution is what matters to him.”

John decided that this was the defining moment where he’d definitely lost his mind.  Hanging out and then staying with Sherlock required one level of sanity, dealing with Mycroft required yet another, tolerating the return of a dead man bumped the notch up a little more, and now he was talking with an assassin about the assassin’s plans for after the job’s completion.  “Do tell me how that works out for you,” he said finally, wondering if he could perhaps wheedle out the third target’s location from the sniper.

“Oh, it will work out, the third victim is the most important and he won’t even know what hit him because Holmes is too stubborn to give up the name,” Moran said, smirking as John gave him a thin smile.  “And I won’t tell either, I’m enjoying this too much.  Watching you all stumble around like that, excellent work evading Falsworth, by the way.  When you escaped and came here to Baker Street.”

“Thanks.  I wasn’t pleased to find him bleeding all over the place,” John replied in an even tone.

“Sorry about that, but in my defense, he shot first.  Missed me, but I was still offended.  And he killed my subordinates here and in the United States,” Moran said, shaking his head in dismay. 

“I guess you taught him rather well, then,” John said.

Moran shrugged.  “I’m certainly not the comatose sniper lying unprotected in the hospital.  Mycroft almost had him incarcerated for life, for his apparent murder of Holmes in New York City.  Now _that_ I would have gladly paid money to watch, but as it is, Holmes is unfortunately alive, so no show I suppose,” he said, looking forlornly at the empty side table, as though expecting there to be a drink of some kind.  John wasn’t going to humor him.  Sighing, Moran turned back to John.  “I’d ask you how your week has been going, but given that I’ve been with you almost ever step of the way, I already have a pretty good idea.”

“Congratulations.”  John’s temper was beginning to thin, but he knew better than to lose it in front of Moran.  At best, the sniper would only be amused, which would irritate John further, but at worst, Moran might feel threatened enough to actually kill him, which was something John would like to avoid.  Especially since for one, he’d like to live and two, while Mrs. Hudson was gone, he didn’t want to drag their neighbors into the mess as well.  “If you’re not here for a person, then why are you here?” he finally asked.

“I was bored.  Since I had time to get an idea of the competition, I figured I might as well,” Moran replied.  He nodded toward the empty table and said, “May I please have tea or coffee?”

“No,” John replied automatically.  “I’m not staying long, and I’d rather not have to wash anything.”

“All right, all right, calm down, I was about to leave anyway,” Moran said, standing up.  He smirked when John stood up with him.  “Aw, don’t worry doctor.  I’m not going after you just quite yet, I promised Holmes that I’d save you for last,” he said, grinning nastily as he began calmly walking toward the stairs, where John was standing. 

“I thought you said you would keep the ‘best for last’,” John said, frowning.  “The third target.”

“And?” Moran prompted, stopping when he was standing next John.

It finally clicked.

John snorted.  “I’m sorry, but Sherlock doesn’t-”

“We were both there when Moriarty said he would burn Sherlock’s heart out, at the Pool,” Moran said quietly, leaning slightly so that he was closer to John’s ear.  “Holmes denied having one, but he rather showed his hand not only then, but at the rooftop on St. Bart’s.  Three targets, three assassins.  Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and the only other person who deigned to stick around with him despite everything.”  Sighing, Moran said, “Well, unfortunately since Falsworth and Holmes killed all my companions and their backups, that means I have to pick up the slack.  He straightened and added, “Good riddance though, they were all like children near the end, trying to one up each other.  It was starting to annoy me.  Anyway, I thought I lost my chance when Holmes jumped, but then he resurfaced, which made me happy all over again.  All that work into monitoring you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t go to waste after all.”

John was quiet for a few moments, processing this information.  He remembered Sherlock’s decision to leave the third target clueless, Mycroft’s reply to John’s counter-argument, and felt like a complete idiot for not catching on that moment.  Then, tempering down his anger at the Holmeses for _once again_ dictating his actions without his permission (or knowledge for that matter), he asked in a steady voice, “Are you saying that Sherlock jumped because otherwise Moriarty was going to have me, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson shot?” John asked disbelievingly.

“And people don’t give you enough credit.  Now, I do have to go before Holmes arrives with the cavalry, don’t want to miss out on the fun later.  Can’t wait to see what you have in mind for trapping me,” he said, winking.   “Oh, and John?  I do hope that the _fall_ out with Holmes isn’t fatal,” he added, pausing in the doorway.

“I won’t make it _that_ easy for you,” John said, and then Moran lazily saluted before disappearing through the door.

John collapsed into his armchair, silently processing everything, still feeling oddly sort of numb now that he wasn’t in a life-threatening situation.  He still couldn’t believe that after all this time, Sherlock still didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the entire situation.  First Baskerville, then the Fall, and now this.  

_How much longer?_

“John?”

Speaking of the devil…

Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, eyes wide as he searched the flat from where he was standing.  He paused when he noticed John sitting there, and then relaxed when he saw that John was in one piece and not bleeding out all over the floor.  “Where’s Moran?” he asked, stepping the couch and picking at what looked like a small oil stain.  “He was here recently,” he added almost absently, rubbing a little oil between his fingers.

“Yeah, he left recently.  We had a nice chat before he left,” John said, watching as Sherlock settled uncomfortably in his armchair across from John.  “In fact, I was hoping you would be able to clarify a few things, starting from what Moriarty told you on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, and when exactly were you planning to tell me any of this.”

“I see,” was all Sherlock said as he settled in the armchair.

For a moment, neither man said anything, instead silently daring the other to say something first.  Sherlock was trying hard not to fidget, but even John could see it.  It was finally getting to the point, fifteen to twenty minutes later, where John was about to all but order Sherlock into talking when the consulting detective caved.

“Fine, I’ll talk.  And I’ll start with the events leading up to the Fall, when the ambassador’s children were taken,” Sherlock said finally, slumping in his seat in what John achingly recalled as one of the detective’s sulking poses.

Instead of remarking on it, John gestured and said, “Begin.”

Sherlock hesitantly nodded, and then did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed that I changed Alex's (Sherlock cousin's) name to 'Jeffrey'. I made this change for two connected reasons, if you really want to know, just ask and I'll explain. The short version though is to avoid confusion with another story.
> 
> Sorry for not putting this up sooner!


	15. Bait

“Here, try this.”

“What is it?” John asked, taking the flesh-colored device and examined it.

“An earpiece, so we can still stay in touch,” Jeffrey said, handing one to Lestrade.  The three of them were sitting around a small dining table, already set for two, at Jeffrey’s flat.  He was outfitting them both for what he said _should_ be a short and small mission in finishing Moran off.  John, not to his surprise, felt more at home than he probably should be, given that it had been years now since Afghanistan. 

“Have you spotted Moran yet?” Lestrade asked as Gladstone happily settled down on John’s lap, unaware of his master’s thoughts. 

“I’ve almost pinpointed his location.  The only reason I can’t work any faster is because I’m partially working behind my boss’s back for this.  The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can get back to my life and Sherlock can get back to his,” Jeffrey explained as he opened his laptop, which was sitting on the kitchenette counter behind him.

“Jeffrey… can you answer something for me?” John asked quietly.

“To an extent.  If it’s anything to do with the British government or MI6, then I can’t answer without risking execution for treason,” Jeffrey replied without looking up.  “Anything else, I will answer to the best of my ability.”

“Did you know that I was Moran’s third target?” John asked, blue eyes watching Jeffrey moving around the computer.

Jeffrey paused while Lestrade looked up in interest; he and John had been analyzing Sherlock’s words ever since Sherlock had admitted to knowing about Moran’s plans.  The two men however had been unable to determine the exact level of Jeffrey’s involvement.  Jeffrey sighed, and then said, “Yes, I knew.  Sherlock asked me to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson and you two, after he returned from the dead a second time.  Long story.  He-”

“He was the man shot in New York, wasn’t he?  Only Falsworth faked it,” Lestrade said, frowning.

“Yes, Sherlock said as much in your office after the shoot-out at the Yard, remember?” John said, glancing at him warily.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I didn’t immediately believe him at the time,” Lestrade countered.  Turning back to Jeffrey, he asked, “Were you ever going to tell us anything about what was going on?”

“Honestly?  No.  Had things gone according to plan, Moran would never have found out that Sherlock survived, allowing Sherlock the element of surprise and a quick and easy kill.  But no, Sherlock had, as he called it, a ‘moment of weakness’, and thus left that anonymous comment on your blog, Doctor Watson.  Something about a black jacket,” Jeffrey replied, connecting the tablet to the laptop.

“Yeah, I remember that,” John said, recalling the post and comment in question.

“Anyway, the chain reaction after that went something like this.  The last of the assassins breaks rank, targeting Mrs. Hudson, and prompted the attack that you wrote about in the blog.  Sherlock leaves the comment, anonymously of course, and then goes off to kill the assassin that was lurking in New York City.  Moran, meanwhile, checks your blog as he does in case he was wrong the day Sherlock jumped.  He sees the comment, realizes what’s going on, and mobilizes the remnants of the assassins left working for Moriarty.  He will not receive any further aid from Moriarty’s successor, as the man is not interested in the Holmeses.  Sherlock realizes, through Mycroft, that Moran knows, and fakes his death a second time to buy more time.  Our cousin, who lives in New York, is there to confirm the death.  Mycroft falls for it as well, which works in our favor since the mole on his staff, Ronald Adair, hears this and passes the message along to Moran.”  Jeffrey paused to catch his breath before glancing at John.  “With me so far?”

“Yes.”

“All right.  Moran, whether he doesn’t believe Adair or wants to kill the three targets anyway, gives the go-ahead regardless,” Jeffrey said, syncing the two devices.

“Then those three victims that the Yard investigated recently…” Lestrade began slowly.

“Were killed by Falsworth, Sherlock, or some variation thereof.  Falsworth shot Adair while sitting in a tree, the arrival of police startled him so much he fell out and broke his arm.  My sister, whom you’ve already met, had to patch him up,” Jeffrey said, shrugging before he picked up a small headset with a mouthpiece.  “Please put the earpieces in so we can test them, right ear mind you.”

“How did Sherlock manage to fool _Mycroft_ of all people?” John asked.  “Did your sister help you there?”

“No.  Molly Hooper graciously agreed to travel to the United States, and pretended to work in the morgue there.  I think she and Sherlock used the assassin’s body as Sherlock’s changing the DNA records here.  After all, records are only as good as the people who keep them.  Anyway, Molly smuggled Sherlock back into London by pretending he was her new assistant, he had to be extremely careful whenever Mycroft came to St. Bart’s.  As for the rest, well, you know what happened next,” Jeffrey said, raising the small microphone up to his mouth.  “Can you hear me all right?”

“Yes,” John replied, glancing at Lestrade, who was still adjusting his.  “Need help?” he offered.

“No thanks, I got it.”  Lestrade glanced over at Jeffrey, and asked, “So this earpiece will allow the three of us to communicate?”

“On this frequency, yes.  Sherlock and Falsworth are on a separate frequency, and the third frequency would have allowed the five of us to communicate.  I had to recode a new team frequency after Falsworth ended up in the hospital, to avoid unwanted eavesdroppers.  I am not taking that risk this late in the game,” he said, absently reaching for his phone, which was vibrating on the counter.  He frowned while reading the text message, and then sent a quick reply before setting it down again.  “All frequencies and are monitored and controlled here, and only I can access the system,” he explained, gesturing to the laptop. 

“What if someone else tries to access the frequencies?” Lestrade asked.

“It will blow up.  You can only use the basic Internet from here without my further authorization,” Jeffrey calmly replied.  “Hopefully, it won’t come to that seeing as there are civilians living here and it is my favorite laptop,” he added after a moment’s thought.  “Theoretically, it would be a controlled blast, but I’m honestly not keen on testing that theory.”

“Yes, let’s try to avoid that,” John agreed, eyeing the laptop with a new degree of respect.

“Right.”  Jeffrey glanced at his phone, which was buzzing again.  Wordlessly, he reached over and shut it off.  “Sherlock has gotten more and more annoying in the last ten minutes.  If he wants to talk, he can call,” he said, scowling at the device before turning back to them.  “Now-”

_Brrring!  Brrring!_

“Why is he choosing _now_ to be annoying?” Jeffrey muttered, reaching for the wall phone.  “Hello…oh… Sherlock, I gave you advice regarding that, advice you evidently ignored.  Can’t that wait for after…then why are you calling me and not him?  I see… can we talk about this after?  Please?  _Thank you_.”  With that he promptly hung the phone up and ran a hand through his hair.  “Sorry about that,” he said.  Looking up at John, he asked carefully, “You two didn’t get into _too_ big of a fight, did you?”

John sighed.  “I asked him why he kept that information from me, and he mumbled something but wouldn’t directly answer me.  I don’t know why,” he said.

Jeffrey rolled his eyes.  “And Aunt Minerva doesn’t understand why Mum is worried about Sherlock and Mycroft.  Well, really just Sherlock at this point,” he muttered under his breath.  To John, he said, “Ask him to speak up next time, and ask between cases.  The alternative would be to wait for him to come around at his own pace, but you need a special sort of patience for that,” he said.

“Out of curiosity, what is your relationship like with Sherlock and Mycroft?” Lestrade asked.

Jeffrey arched an eyebrow at him.  “Complicated,” he finally said, setting his headset down.  “Same goes for my other set of cousins, Sherrinford and Sherlock.”

“Christ, there are _two_ Sherlocks?” Lestrade asked, looking utterly horrified.

Jeffrey grimaced.  “Point of contention between Aunt Minerva and Aunt Alexandrine.  If you ever meet either or both of them, _never_ bring that up.  Your Sherlock, since he’s a year or two younger, we always called him ‘Sher’ at family reunions.  He still hates it whenever I call him that, it’s a bad habit of mine,” he said, typing a few commands into the computer.

“Then the other Sherlock is the one that lives in New York,” John said, recalling the conversation with Gregson before everything turned pear-shaped. 

“Correct.  Anyway, our parents, Mum, Uncle Siger, and Uncle Abraham, were the ones that never really got along as children, and drifted further apart as they got older.  Or so Mum thinks.”  Shaking his head, he said, “I apologize if that’s more than you ever cared to know.  The bottom line is that normally my cousins, my sisters and I aren’t the best of friends on any regular day, but we can at least put grudges aside when the safety of the family is threatened.”

“Actually, I don’t know about John, but I found that to be helpful,” Lestrade replied.

“I remember he said he recruited a few of you in order to fake his death,” John said slowly as he recalled the words in question.

“Not at first.  Mycroft helped him as did Molly, and then Liz and I came in after he needed assistance getting back to England.  His original plan in returning, John, was simply returning to the flat and taking whatever it was you dealt out to him.  _Then_ he’d planned to patch things up as best he could,” Jeffrey patiently replied.

“Did he not trust me enough to allow me to help him?” John asked quietly, absently rubbing Gladstone’s stomach.

Jeffrey sighed.  “I’m sorry John, but even I don’t know what goes through his head sometimes.  I figured it was none of my business, so I didn’t pry,” he said apologetically.

John nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Now,” Jeffrey said, clapping his hands together eagerly as he turned back to his computer.  “I’m going to text Sherlock and tell him that we’re going to test the team frequency,” he said, reaching for the laptop’s track pad.  “We-”

John saw it before Lestrade did, and reacted faster than the detective.

As soon as he saw the familiar red dot hovering over Jeffrey’s exposed back, John shoved the table against him, upsetting Gladstone and pitching Jeffrey to the ground right as the sniper’s – Moran’s bullet went straight into the table, chipping the wood on the edge.  Then John ducked down beside Lestrade on the ground right as a second bullet shot by where his head had been less than five seconds ago.

“ _Fuck_ , that was _fast_ ,” Jeffrey complained as he darted back up long enough to snatch his computer and bring it back to the safety underneath the table.  He flinched as something plastic broke from the next bullet, and then he muttered, “I really do hope that wasn’t important…” He jumped at the next object’s destruction, and then muttered, “ _That_ would be my phone…”

“What’s our next step?” John asked, watching Jeffrey now.  Gladstone was burrowing into John’s jacket, and John could only hope that the dog would be able to get to safety, that was the whole point of him leaving Gladstone here.

“You will need to draw his fire away from here, there are too many civilians not only in this building, but on the streets as well.”  Running through algorithms that went straight over John’s head, Jeffrey scanned the numbers before he said, “All right, if you keep Moran interested long enough to get out of this tangle of residential streets, try to lead him toward Imperial Wharf aboveground if possible.  I personally think that direct confrontation would be stupid-”

“Do you think it would be possible to keep him engaged that long?”  John flinched as more gunfire flew overhead, but he could tell from the bullets’ angles that Moran was not in a good sniping position, and in order to keep him from adjusting, he and Lestrade would have to move soon.

 “Let’s hope that he wants you as bad as he claims.  All right, go now.  When you come back, the door code is-” Jeffrey ducked as another bullet grazed the table leg this time.  “Code is two-zero-zero-seven.  Just _go_ and for God’s sake, _be careful!_   And keep the earpieces in so that I can stay in touch with you. _”_

“Got it.” 

John risked the short lull in Moran’s fire to come above the table and fire back with the Browning.  He didn’t see the sniper, but he tried for the general direction before ducking down again.

In the nick of time too: something else shattered as John retreated to safety.  “All right, next pause and we start moving again,” he said to Lestrade, who nodded.  They both jumped at the sound of rapid gunfire, but then John realized that the Met, or other first responders, had finally arrived to control the damage.  “Moran’s too good at this to be killed by police, given how long he’s survived with this lifestyle.”

“Mm.  Oh, hello Sherlock.  Where are you?” Jeffrey said, and it took John a second to realize that he was talking to his cousin over the link.  “Oh, we’re just pinned under a table at my flat.  John, Lestrade and I are planning to lead Moran to Imperial Wharf, it’s the closest to reinforcements I can get us.”  Glancing up at John, he mouthed _‘Go’_ before going back to the laptop screen. 

John tugged Lestrade’s sleeve, and the two of them slipped out from underneath the table.  Before John could react though, Jeffrey slithered out from underneath the table as well and, pulling out a previously hidden pistol, opened fired in a specific direction.  Gladstone meanwhile scrabbled to the bedroom for safety.

The two men meanwhile snuck out of the flat altogether.

They headed for the stairwell.  Jeffrey’s flat was on the fourth floor, but John didn’t want to risk the lift in case of some horrid twist where Moran or a loyal minion was waiting in the lobby for them.

John’s grip on the Browning tightened at the thought.

As it were, it was just three security officers in the lobby, guarding the entrance.  “Yard business, excuse us,” Lestrade said, flashing his badge before one of the officers could stop him.

“Sir, there’s a firefight going on outside!” the leader said, starting to move to block the two of them.

“Who is in charge?” Lestrade asked, stopping to face the man.

“Er, Lieutenant Cornwall, he’s got the red patch on his uniform, sir.  The captain is down, still alive but injured from what I last heard, sir,” the guard replied, snapping to attention.  “We’ve been able to determine that the sniper has a companion, the companion is keeping the police busy while the sniper focuses on a certain point over here.”

“Very well.  I’ll take charge now.  Keep guarding this building, do not let anyone in or out without my authorization,” Lestrade ordered before following John out onto the street.  The two immediately ducked close to the ground to remain out of sight, and John took advantage of the moment to assess the situation.

The police were doing an excellent job keeping the situation controlled.  Several cars were already damaged from stray fire, but officers were using them as shields.  John could tell that Moran’s companion was more focused on the police, but the sniper himself was careful to stay out of sight. 

“I suppose the question now is how do we get his attention and lead him away from here,” Lestrade whispered to John, flinching when several screams accompanied the latest _crash_ of something breaking.  “This is getting extremely out of hand-”

“We need a distraction in order to lead Moran away.  Of course, in order to do that, we need to find out where he is, I’d feel better about presenting a distraction if I knew where he was so that we could keep an eye on him and _not_ get hit,” John explained, pausing long enough to fire in one of the two directions that the officers were focusing their fire on.  That sparked a fresh round of gunfire from all around, and Lestrade pulled John out of sight. 

“Then go find Moran, tell me where he is, and then I’ll start drawing him away while you come down and join me,” Lestrade said grimly, squeezing John’s shoulder slightly.  “Now _go._ ”

John moved.

He didn’t know if Jeffrey could hear them through all of the shouting, but he hoped that the other man was still all right.  Weaving in and out of the cars was more dangerous than it initially appeared to be, since one of the gunmen had finally noticed John and was most likely trying to stop him.  John never knew for sure how many other men were working with Moran now, especially since Moran’s MO seemed to be that he worked alone and that his benefactor was no longer interested in pursuing Sherlock.  If Moran had other gunman, and what felt like more than just the one the guard had assumed, then it was highly likely that they were mercenaries.

Slamming the door to the nearest building open, he wasn’t _too_ surprised to find that the small hall was deserted and he managed to climb the stairs to the attic unchallenged; these flats were in similar design to those at Baker Street, but had a central staircase that led straight up to the attic.  He could hear civilians struggling to remain quiet in their own flats, and he did his best to be quiet as he headed up the stairs to the attic. 

The window on the opposite end of the attic luckily opened out to a rickety fire escape, but John headed out anyway.  He used the fire escape to boost himself up, but remained close to the roof.  Up here, the gunshots were quieter; there were more police shooting than snipers, which was good news.  That or the snipers were taking less frequent shots than their opponents.  Despite the noise, the police kept a rapid pace that the snipers occasionally punctured with shots of their own.  Using a nearby chimney as a hiding place, John cautiously looked around at the neighboring rooftops.

At first, he didn’t see anything or anyone.  Just cloudy skies and the constant report of gunfire, which was even more unnerving when there weren’t any other sounds of life. 

He happened to glance across the street, where Jeffrey’s corner flat and open window was.  He froze when he saw the two figures perched on the rooftop next to Jeffrey’s building.  It wasn’t Moran, but another sniper.  He was absolutely still while his spotter, John could see the second figure right behind the sniper, used binoculars to scan the area where John was hiding.  He felt himself hold his breath when the binoculars settled on him for a moment, but then released it once the binoculars moved on.  John was turning to hide back behind the chimney when he caught sight of Moran.

The man was on the next roof over, hiding behind his chimney as he reloaded the sniper rifle.  His attention was elsewhere, on his gun and his attackers.  His wingman would be protecting his back.  Which meant that John had to be careful.  He did note that Moran was within range for a shot, the Browning weighing heavily where it was holstered at his side.

_The hunted becomes the hunter._

In an ideal world, John would have liked to bring Moran to court for all past crimes and see justice properly done.  No threatening of the jury, a fair and clean trial.  But as with every situation in life, it was not that clear cut and simple… or even possible, given the fact that he and Moran were on rooftops in this situation.  John knew that if he took the shot, he could stop Moran, end this business once and for all and save the lives of everyone involved.  The downside was that he would most likely die, given that Moran’s backup was probably keeping a sharp eye on Moran himself.

Pulling out the Browning, he took a deep breath to steady his aim.  Remembered Mrs. Hudson.  Lestrade.  Jeffrey.  Molly.  Elizabeth. 

 _Sherlock_.

He had quite a bit left to sort out with the consulting detective.  He just hoped he would still be alive to do it.

John pulled the trigger.

Moran jerked as the bullet hit his back, sending him forward and down.  John lowered the gun, moving his position so that he could see both ways and pressed his back against the chimney, lowering the chances of an ambush.  His heart beat a little faster when he saw that the sniper/spotter pair flinched and then turn to focus on Moran, who was now scrabbling – _where did John hit him? –_ to hide again behind the chimney.  He turned, and scowled when he spotted John; he couldn’t shout or otherwise move, the police had taken notice of his fall and was concentrating their fire on the one spot.  Pressing his back up against the chimney as though for support, he smirked before flipping John off.

_What?_

Then his attacker ambushed him from behind, where he’d stopped looking to keep an eye on Moran.

Hands closed around his throat, promptly cutting off John’s air supply and tightening as he instinctively tried to fight back.  The Browning fell out of his hands and skittered down the roof before disappearing over the edge.  His hands meanwhile flew up to pry the attacker off, but before he could, his attacker dug his thumbs into the pressure points below John’s jaw.  Darkness swam into his vision, and he was down before he fully realized what had just happened.


	16. Run

John woke up to a painful throbbing in his head.

The first thing he realized was that he was tied to a wooden chair in a large room that was empty except for the line of dusty crates along the edge of the wall.  As far as he could see though, there were no identifying marks or labels that were visible.  The second thing he realized was that his chair was tied to another chair, and tightly enough so that he’d knock both chairs over if he tried to break free.  There was no sign of Moran, which would either be problematic or fortunate, depending on the sniper’s reason for being absent.  He craned his neck, trying to get a better look at his surroundings.  Dusty lights highlighted metal beams above, and the windows were so dirty it was hard to tell what time of day it was.

“ _Ughhhh…”_

“ _Jeffrey?_ ” John blurted out as the person behind him moaned.  “What are you doing here?”

A series of coughs, and then, “Hell if I know.  I suspect Lestrade was able to escape, which is good.  His freedom means a higher possibility of us getting rescued.  Which is good because I can’t see a fucking thing,” Jeffrey complained as he tested his bonds; John could feel Jeffrey’s ropes tugging on his.  Sniffing the air, Jeffrey added, “Although, given that I can hear the water sloshing against the wall nearby, and there’s no salt in the air, I suspect we’re near the Thames.  Which is where I wanted to be in the first place anyway, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“Jeffrey… are you all right?” John asked, mentally trying to assess Jeffrey’s mental and physical condition.

“My ribs hurt like hell, but I think that’s from when I hit the table on my way down after one of the damn snipers hit me in the shoulder.  Bullet wound doesn’t hurt though, probably paracetamol,” Jeffrey replied, sounding oddly calm for a kidnapped hostage.  “And someone took my glasses.”

John nodded, and opened his mouth to reply.  Before he could speak however, the door opened and Sebastian Moran entered.

The sniper looked tired and pale despite the steady stride.  John could see where his shot had caught the sniper in the back, and the jacket bulged slightly with bandages underneath.  The rifle lay across his back, and John spotted evidence of a smaller firearm in the jacket pocket.  Moran meanwhile was pocketing an iPhone as he approached the two of them.  “If I’d known that forcing Holmes’ hand would have yielded this outcome, I would have done it much sooner,” he said quietly, testing the rope between the two of them.  Kneeling down, he asked, “Is it too tight around your hands, Mr. Bradford?”

“No.”  Jeffrey’s voice was cold.

“Good, I didn’t want to cut off your circulation, Mr. Bradford.  My employer was rather adamant that your eyes and hands remain intact and perfectly functional.  Why that, I don’t know, but nor do I particularly _care_ ,” Moran said, standing up.

“That’s good to know, lucky me,” Jeffrey muttered underneath his breath so John could hear.

Moran evidently heard it as well.  “Mind you, my employer didn’t say anything about your mouth.  Or that you had to be conscious,” he warned, to which Jeffrey heaved a sigh that John heard rather than felt.  Stepping back to glance at someone John couldn’t immediately see, Moran said, “Patrice, will you want him unconscious or not?”

“Unconscious.  We’ll be flying, and I would rather not deal with a troublesome passenger,” said an unfamiliar, well-built man as he stepped from the shadows.  “Your payment, Colonel Moran, will be transferred once I deliver the boy.”

John heard Jeffrey mutter something about being in his late twenties and therefore _not_ a ‘boy’, but neither Moran nor Patrice heard him.  “I’d better be getting full payment when he arrives then, it was damn hard to navigate around his bodyguard,” Moran warned as Patrice walked towards the two hostages.

Patrice was silent, dark eyes scanning both John and Jeffrey.  “Who is he?” he finally asked, nodding toward John.

“Unfinished job, I’m still taunting his friend, and then I’m going to kill him so that the friend may know what it’s like to live without the other half,” Moran said, making a face as he stepped past Patrice.  “Unless of course, our employer wants him as well?”

“No.  He was never interested in Moriarty’s petty squabbles.  May we continue our discussion elsewhere?  I do not trust the ‘unfinished job’ since you will not be killing him right away,” Patrice said, warily eyeing John. 

Moran snorted.  “You don’t trust anyone who is tied up but still alive,” he replied dryly as he followed Patrice.  “But only in the next room over, I don’t think you want to lose your prize.”

“In all honesty, I couldn’t care less.  I’m not getting paid anything except a measly fifty American dollars for transporting the prisoner,” Patrice snapped back as the two disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the room.

For a moment, neither hostage said anything.  Then Jeffrey said, “Well, I suppose it’s good to know that Moran doesn’t want to kill you right away.  Now listen, John.  I suspect that Moran wants to make a show out of this, which is good for us since that means you get to live a little longer.”

“What about you?  How are you so calm about this?” John demanded, trying to keep his voice down.

“My boyfriend tends to get a little… trigger-happy when things like this happen.  He’ll already be searching for us, and if we’re _extra_ lucky, he will have found Sherlock and they won’t argue long enough to sort this out,” Jeffrey replied.  “All wishful thinking of course…” He shook his head and said, “John, you have to escape.”

John started.  “Wait, what?”

“I can’t see, and I suspect that Moran confiscated or even destroyed my glasses.  I’ll slow us down, and I’m next to useless in a gunfight even when I _can_ see.  I’m just a technician, not a soldier or agent or whatever.  We both know I’m about to be taken out of the country, and I’d feel a little better if I knew that someone out there knew that, and could do something about it,” he said, and John could feel him testing the rope that bound the two of them together.

“Jeffrey?” he said when the other stopped talking.

“Yes?”

“Either we both go, or we both stay.  Given that we’ve established that Moran wants to kill me, I vote we both go,” John said, already looking around for the best exit.

Jeffrey was quiet for a moment.  “That works just as well,” he said finally.  “Any ideas then?”

“Yes, we’ll just escape by running.  First key is to get out of these ropes,” John said, testing the strength of his binds. 

“I’ve got handcuffs,” Jeffrey said testily.  John heard him shuffling in his seat, and then Jeffrey said, “Sherlock taught me how to dislocate the bones in my hands when I was eleven years old.  Mum was furious.  Anyway, I won’t be able to really use my hands after this, I do apologize in advance.”

“No need to, just jump or duck when I say to,” John instructed.

“Now _that_ I can do.”

In reality, it was probably only a few minutes, but to John it felt like hours as he felt Jeffrey working his hands free.  He had no idea how close to freedom Jeffrey was when the door suddenly opened again and Moran came striding out of the room, Patrice right behind him.  John froze when he realized that Moran already had a gun out and was pulling the hammer back as he got closer.  The surprising speed at which his final execution was happening left John frozen and speechless.

This was it.

John had never really given much thought as to how he would die, mostly because the risks he faced every day kept changing.  First it had been Afghanistan, then it had been the Browning in his hand, and then it was running after criminals, which turned to Moriarty and the Pool.  Sherlock’s suicide had pushed him farther to his limit, but this apparently was the end deal.  John brought his breathing back under control; at least he could deny Moran the satisfaction of frightening him.  John sighed as Moran brought the gun up to John’s forehead, Patrice standing impatiently off to the side.

John silently wished that he could have had one last chance to talk to Sherlock and clear things up between them.  Just so both could have a clean conscience and start over.  After the Fall, John had discovered he’d grown to be quite attached to Sherlock, reflective in his grief as he went to the grave and spoke to it as though the man himself was there.  Perhaps, even with time, John briefly wondered, could he have even fallen in love with Sherlock?

He’d never find out now.

“Look at me,” Moran softly commanded.

Without hesitating, a natural reaction to an order, John obeyed.

For a second, neither man said anything or moved.

_Snap!_

_Bang!_

Next thing John knew, he was lying flat on the ground, Jeffrey lying on top of him in an awkward sprawl.  Moran was roaring in pain and firing at a fixed point with his back to the prisoners, shattering windows with gunfire.  John bemusedly looked up to see Patrice backing away before running altogether. 

“John, now,” Jeffrey said, plucking at John’s sleeve with his left hand.  John scrambled to his feet and ran after Jeffrey, who led him in the general direction of the control room.  He came to a slow stop when he realized he still couldn’t see, but John managed to grab his elbow and guide him along, pulling him into the same room that Moran and Patrice had been in not too long ago.

John sank down next to Jeffrey, leaning against the now closed door.  He mentally gave Moran ten minutes to figure out that they were gone, and glanced at Jeffrey.  He frowned when he saw that the other man was holding his hands limply at his side.  “What happened?  Let me see…”

“Dislocated my fingers, then I grabbed your jacket without thinking.  I’m in so much pain right now, just give me a moment to breathe,” Jeffrey said through clenched teeth. 

“Give me your hands.”

Jeffrey’s head snapped up at him.  “Are you nuts?”

“I’m a doctor.  Give me your hands.”

Jeffrey stared at him, but reluctantly did.  John frowned as he studied Jeffrey’s fingers; two thumbs, one pointer, and two ring fingers.  “Where did you learn this technique again?” he asked dubiously, gingerly handling the man’s wrists; Jeffrey kept wincing.

“Sherlock, but he did say to use it in extreme situations only.  I figured this counted,” Jeffrey mumbled.

“We’ll have to get this treated at the hospital the second we escape, there’s not much I can do right now,” John said, carefully feeling Jeffrey’s wrists; the skin was raw where the handcuffs chafed them.  “In the meantime, you have to be extremely careful with what you do and where you place your hands until we can get full scans.  There’s not much I can do with a gunman chasing after us, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, just keep us alive and we’ll be fine,” Jeffrey replied shakily as he withdrew his hands.

_BANG!_

The two of them jumped when the door’s little window shattered into a shower of glass.  “Stay with me and keep your hands to your side,” John ordered before tugging Jeffrey’s sleeve and helping him to the safety that was to the side of the door as Moran started shooting holes in it.  A quick glance back told John that the door’s flimsy structure wouldn’t hold forever.  He started guiding Jeffrey towards the door on the other side, praying that Moran wouldn’t kick the door down before the two had had a chance to escape.  “Why did you want to get to the Thames anyway?” John suddenly asked, remembering Jeffrey’s words from the flat and a few minutes ago.

“Wanted to bring the fight to MI6, they’re very sensitive about their territory and would have finished Moran off themselves even if I hadn’t been there,” Jeffrey admitted, clearly embarrassed.  “But we shouldn’t count on them now,” he said, flinching when Moran gave up on shooting the door and began firing on the door’s lock instead.  “I wish I knew how much the employer offered for me, sometimes greed can outweigh personal desire, especially since Moran knows he can always come back for you.  Granted, you would be harder to reach, but the point is you would still be alive-”

“Jeffrey, if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it plenty.  Either we both go, or we both stay,’ John said as something glass shattered on a nearby table.  “ _Let’s go!”_

Jeffrey grunted before ducking and awkwardly shuffling along faster, John silently cursing himself for the lack of a proper weapon.  Then Jeffrey bumped into the door and quickly felt along for a doorknob.  John was faster, snatching a blunt knife off a nearby table and jamming the point into the lock.

“Easy John, finesse is required here.  _Slowly_ work the tip into the lock,” Jeffrey instructed, leaning back slightly to catch his breath.  “If James were here, we wouldn’t have to deal with any of this,” he said, leaning back against the wall to catch his breath.  “Once you hear a faint click, that’s your cue to kick it open.”

Right on cue, there was a barely audible _click_ , and John waited for the thirty-second lull in Moran’s shooting to stand up and kick the door open.  The weakened lock snapped and sent little metal pieces flying across the hall.  “All right, let’s go,” he said, tucking the knife into a belt loop and twisting it so that the point faced down.  “Can you run?”

“Only if you lead.”

They were around the corner and halfway down the next hall when they heard a loud _crash_ somewhere behind them.  “Have you ever played Pac-Man?” Jeffrey panted as they ran; John was holding his elbow so not to lose him.

“Yeah.  Is Patrice the other ghost?” John asked as he guided Jeffrey down another hall, hoping that the labyrinthine nature of the basement level in the building would confuse Moran and buy back precious little time. 

“Only in that he’s another character, he’s not happy with Moran.  Fifty dollars isn’t enough to convince anyone to stick around for a gunfight,” Jeffrey said, shaking his head as best he could at the moment.  “He has no reason to stay.  The only thing I don’t understand is why he would go if he and Moran are business partners.”

“On the other hand, that could be the exact reason he ran.  When Sherlock and I go out on cases, we often find that a large part of the problem is that two criminal business partners have stopped working together and are instead trying to kill each other, with the victim being caught in the crossfire,” John countered, slowing Jeffrey down as they approached another door.  To his immense relief, it was already unlocked.

“If you say so,” Jeffrey said as he scrambled into the room after John, the latter closing it after him before switching the lights on.  “Quick, jam a chair under the handle,” he said, backing away from the door.

“Sorry, only stools.  It looks like a lab in here, be careful,” John warned, slightly disturbed at how eerily similar the lab looked in comparison to the one in Baskerville.  Pushing the stool and wedging it as best he could underneath the door handle, he swallowed back a wave of nausea before turning to Jeffrey.  “Will you need assistance?  I can…”

“Hang on John, I need to catch my breath,” Jeffrey said, leaning forward as though to stretch his spine before straightening.  He sniffed the air and then asked, “Lab, huh?  Are there any marks or insignias on the equipment?”

“Um-” John looked around, eyes scanning around for _anything_ that could be of use, but found nothing.  He could faintly hear Moran firing the gun off somewhere in the distance.  “I think Moran is trying to smoke us out, so we-”

“Yes, but he’s not here yet.  Logo or a company name, please,” Jeffrey said with a touch of impatience.  Sniffing the air again, he said, “I wonder if half of this is even _legal_ …”

“Wouldn’t it be in Baskerville if it was illegal?” John asked.

“Not necessarily.  I was working with some explosive substances a couple days ago, Medical is used to getting me and my coworkers as patients,” Jeffrey said, leaning back against the table.

“Yeah, I remember having to patch Sherlock up after- Jeffrey?” John said, cutting himself off as he turned the next box over.  “Jeffrey, I found a logo.”

“Oh?  Describe it to me, please.”

“There’s a unicorn surrounded by smaller symbols.  No words, do you want me to describe the smaller symbols?”

“No thank you, you had me at ‘unicorn’.  This must be either _the_ secret labs or part of the secret labs that the MI5 director was bragging about the other night at dinner.  Which means there’s got to be a computer here!” Jeffrey said happily, feeling around the table behind him.  He paused, his fingers brushing a glass beaker.  “This is empty, right?”

“Yes, what is it that you want to do with it?” John asked warily.

“I’m tired of being blind, and I need to see if you want me to help you,” Jeffrey said, squinting slightly as he toyed with the beaker with his good pointer and middle fingers on his right hand.  “I’m going to need you to hold it up to my eyes in front of the computer screen, there is a computer in here, right?”

“Yes.” John could see the dusty monitor now; at this angle, a pile of boxes no longer hid it.

“Good.  Now here’s the plan.  Given the awful state of the lab, from what I can feel anyway, no one’s been here in a while.  Which doesn’t make sense if the director was just bragging about it, unless it’s a part of a bigger network.  If I can hack my way onto the computer,” he said, nodding in the general direction of the computer.  “I can try to remotely access MI6’s network, activate a distress signal, and then you and would have to somehow stay alive until rescue comes.”  He paused, and then glanced in John’s direction.  “Do you still have the earpiece?”

John’s hand automatically reached for his ear, and was surprised to find it still there.  “How did Moran _miss_ that?” he asked.

“Most likely he didn’t think that you would have it on in the first place.”  Jeffrey hummed to himself before adding, “Oh and John?  Please help me to the computer, and then shut the light off.  We don’t need a beacon for Moran.  I’m going to need you to hold the beaker so I can see.  Oh, and bring an extra beaker with you.”

_Bang!_

Both John and Jeffrey jumped at the loud bang.  “Moran’s getting closer, how long will it take to set up the distress signal?” John asked as he walked over and guided the younger man, setting him down in front of the computer. 

“No idea, especially since typing is going to be extremely awkward,” Jeffrey replied as John started the computer before walking back over to the light switch and switching the lights off completely.  The room plunged in darkness except for the blue glow from the computer screen.  “Don’t forget the extra beaker,” he added.

“Why the extra beaker?” John asked, feeling around and picking up the nearest beaker that felt light.

“Because in the event Moran _does_ find us, you’re going to throw it at him.  The one you’re holding, that is.  The extra is so that I can continue working once we get rid of one beaker,” Jeffrey explained with a shrug as John came back over and set the extra beaker down before picking up the first one and holding it up so that Jeffrey could see.  “Ah, thank you.”

“So, beakers are now weapons?” John asked finally.

“Element of surprise.  Even though Moran knows he disarmed you, he’s expecting that you found another weapon.”  Tapping the glass with one of his good fingers, he added, “He won’t expect you to have this, so he literally won’t see it coming because for one, it’s glass and it’s dark in here, and two, no one other than Sherlock and I have ever seen the need to use beakers as weapons.”

John stared at him. “When have the two of you ever needed to use beakers as weapons?” he asked, completely off guard.

There was a moment of silence, after which Jeffrey awkwardly cleared his throat.  “It was one of Sherlock’s first cases with the Suffolk police and we, uh, made a few mistakes that made throwing beakers a necessity.  Don’t bring that case up with Sherlock, it’s still embarrassing for everyone involved,” he said before going back to his slow typing, the computer screen slowly filling with numbers and letters that made absolutely no sense to John.

_Click!_

John flinched when the lights suddenly flickered back on.  He didn’t want to shout in fear of attracting Moran’s attention, but he still jumped, as did Jeffrey.

As it turned out though, he needn’t have worried about remaining silent.

Moran was standing in the doorway and breathing heavily, gun in hand.  HE was covered in his own blood, John realized; he could see where one of Moran’s wounds had reopened as new ones, highlighted by the tears in the jacket that dotted his sides and back.

Wait, who had given him the new ones?

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then Jeffrey yelled, “ _John!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any inaccuracies in this chapter.


	17. At Last

John reacted when Jeffrey yelled.

Throwing the beaker as instructed (and hoping it landed somewhere that caused damage for Moran), he used the two seconds of Moran’s stunned confusion to drop to the ground, grabbing the bottom of Jeffrey’s shirt on the way down.  The first bullet was luckily a few seconds late, but John _knew_ that he and Jeffrey were going to be killed if they lingered in there much longer.

More bullets peppered the wall, one smashing a hole in the computer screen.  Pushing Jeffrey into a small alcove underneath the table, John took advantage of Moran’s inattention to grab Jeffrey’s shoulders.  “Nod if you can hear me,” he whispered furiously.

Jeffrey gave a jerky nod, flinching when another bullet hit the table above them.

“All right, listen carefully.  I’m going to distract Moran long enough for you to escape, get out of this room and hopefully Patrice won’t find you.  Do your best to get out of here or at least _hide_ , but don’t get boxed in,” he said, checking Jeffrey’s slightly unfocused eyes in the hopes that it was just Jeffrey struggling without his glasses and not signs of an unexpected concussion.

“Are you sure?” Jeffrey asked, raising an eyebrow.  “I can’t see very well…”

“But you’ll at least have a fighting chance and an opportunity for escape instead of a sitting duck _here_ ,” John pointed out.  He looked up when there was a _crash_ somewhere in the room, and then whispered, “I’m going now, _stay safe_.”

He started to crawl, waiting for a lull in the shooting to make a dash for the other door (Moran had to run out of bullets at some point!), when he felt the familiar sensation of Jeffrey’s fingers tugging on his shirt.  “What?” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the other man.

“ _After_ we get out of this, you should talk to Sherlock.  I know you’re mad at him, and you have every right to be.  I mean, I’m mad at him too but for different reasons.  I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to him again, but keep in mind that second chances like this one rarely ever happen to people.  Especially those who are involved in careers with guns in them,” Jeffrey said, eerily managing to make eye contact with John despite the lack of glasses.

John nodded, gently squeezed Jeffrey’s shoulder, and then began moving across the lab on the ground.

It was a testament to the extent of Moran’s injuries that he hadn’t been prowling around the lab while shooting.  John knew for sure that he’d be dead and Jeffrey would be tied up and unconscious by now if that were the case.  There was a faint clicking sound as he finally neared the other side of the lab, and the sound of an empty clip heralded his only opportunity for escape.

He bolted for the door.

Swore viciously when he realized that the damn thing was actually _locked_.

When John turned around, Moran looked confused for a split second before shifting to stand in front of his door, well aware that he and John were more or less evenly matched in terms of strength and weaponry.

Gritting his teeth at the sudden standoff, John briefly entertained the idea of negotiation before quickly discarding the idea.  Moran undoubtedly still remembered the shot from the rooftops, and that alone would make him uncooperative in any kind of negotiation.

Moran seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same time.  Straightening up and relaxing his hands, he said, “Here we are, Doctor Watson, at an impasse.  What do we do now, you suppose?”

“You let us go, and walk away, leaving us alone?” John said, careful not to glance in the direction in which he knew Jeffrey was hiding.

“I’m not going to let twelve hundred pounds walk away.  And I _always_ finish a job,” Moran said coldly, not bothering to hide the fact that he was reaching for a weapon behind his back.

“Then I guess we’re right back to where we started,” John said, tensing in preparation.

“Mm, I suppose so,” Moran said before moving.

John started to move to dodge the knife, but something heavy and unexpected slammed into John’s knees, sending him crashing to the ground.  “I had that well in hand,” he said, scowling at Jeffrey, who was already scrambling to get out of the way of the falling glass; the knife had gone straight through the little window on the door above.

“You’re just as bad as Sherlock.  _Go!”_ Jeffrey snapped as he retreated back to the safety of the lab tables.  John meanwhile jumped up and punched through the rest of the glass as Moran suddenly fell with a _thump_ , swearing and snarling all at once.  Jiggling the door handle, John let out a sigh of relief, as there was a faint _click_ and the door unlocked. 

John had never been more relieved to hear that _click_.

Pausing long enough to grab the little knife that had shattered the window glass, John began to run, pushing open doors in hopes of finding a set of stairs or a lift or a way out of the bloody maze that was the MI5 basement.

It didn’t take Moran long to give pursuit.

The familiar _rat-tat-tat_ of gunfire tipped John off, and the _whoosh_ of a bullet whizzing by his ear was his warning.

“Why won’t you fucking _die_ already?” Moran bellowed, rounding around the corner right as John barely managed to duck into the next hall just in time.

 _Your guess is as good as mine_.  John didn’t know what exactly what it was that distracted Moran from killing him earlier, but he knew he couldn’t rely on the mystery assistance a second time. 

What he _really_ needed was his Browning.  Moran undoubtedly either removed it or destroyed it completely.  Hell, John wouldn’t be surprised if the Browning was now sitting on the bottom of the Thames.  Shouldering open the next door, he slowed down but kept walking; the next room was pitch black.  Kicking it shut, he hoped that it would at least _slow_ Moran down.

Hoping that Moran hadn’t seen him duck inside, John moved away from the door, feeling his way along the walls.  He did encounter the light switch, but didn’t dare turn it on; he still remembered what Jeffrey said back in the lab about the light acting as a beacon for Moran.

Jeffrey.  God, he hoped that the younger man was at least still alive, especially after aggravating Moran like that.  John didn’t even know where Patrice was, if he was even still around.  Hopefully, should Patrice choose to attack, Jeffrey would be able to hold his own until John could come assist him. 

John still had no idea how he would be able to eliminate Moran, given his current lack of weapons.

Christ.

Soon enough, as he crouched down near the door, he heard Moran’s rapidly approaching footsteps.  Holding his breath and remaining absolutely still, he heard a faint _click_ as Moran pushed open the door to glance inside, only to growl when he realized how exactly dark the room was.  “Watson, don’t think for one minute that I don’t think you’re in here,” he growled, letting the door close behind him.  A grumble, and then, “Where’s that fucking light switch…”

John silently began moving back toward the door: being stuck in the same room with a pissed off killer was a bit not good.

Then he passed in front of the light switch right as Moran reached for it.

There was a split second of frozen silence as both registered what had just happened, and John ducked and rolled, much to the protest of his shoulder.  Moran snarled, reaching for John again only to grab his ankle.  For a moment, John honestly thought that it was over, and that he was going to actually die this time.  A surge of panic rose in his belly and he reflexively kicked, struggling to remain calm as fingers clawed their way up his leg as Moran struggled to get a better grip.

A well-placed kick to the face sent Moran recoiling in pain, the fingers suddenly disappearing.  John took advantage of this, bolting out of the door and slamming it shut.  Wishing he had a chair to jam underneath the handle, he instead jammed one of the two knives he had into the lock before running down the hall.  He rounded the corner as he continued searching frantically for another place to hide.  He belatedly recognized the hall as the one that led to the storage-like room where the whole mess started. 

Weapon-wise, he was going to have to improvise.  Bringing a knife to a gunfight was going to be the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but if he were lucky, the numerous crates in the massive storage room from before would have something worth using.

John was footsteps away from the door when there was a sudden crackling in his ear, causing him to jerk away in surprise.  “What the-”

 _“Shhh!  It’s me, Jeffrey, in the earpiece.  Get to a place of safety, and then we can talk,”_ Jeffrey said, voice crackling in earpiece.  “ _Quickly, I don’t know where Moran or Patrice are right now, I just managed to get into the system.”_

Instead of asking the first question that came to mind – _Are you safe? –_ John obeyed, slipping through the door that led to the storage room that he and Jeffrey started out in.  Walking past the remnants of the two chairs they’d been tied to, he crossed the expansive room toward the stacks of crates.  “Jeffrey, what are in these?” he whispered as he ducked behind one that was directly across the room from the front door.  Above him were a series of catwalks, but he couldn’t see much of the ceiling through the grate paths. 

 _“No idea, this could be junk for all I know.  MI5 is notorious for hiring thieving pack rats, and weaponry isn’t exactly something you want to stash away.  Especially in the espionage business,”_ Jeffrey replied grimly.  “ _I’d suggest cracking one open, but make sure it has a label first.  And even then, use caution, who knows what the hell they put in these things.  Oh, and Moran’s just left that room… ouch, that looks like it hurt.  Did you kick him in the face?”_

“How do you know?” John whispered, keeping his voice down.

“ _Just because a few fingers are broken doesn’t mean I can’t use the others.  It just makes things extra slow and painful.  And Moran has the edge of what looks like of a footprint on his forehead.  Anyway, listen.  Start by taking your finger away from the earpiece.”_

John abruptly lowered his right hand.  “How can you tell it was there?  Experience?” he asked.

“ _No, I finally have the surveillance cameras at my command.  Like I said, slow going.  I can also see that you have that knife from earlier.  Think you can throw it?”_ Jeffrey asked.

“I think so, it’s the ‘getting it in hand to throw it at him and not miss’ part I’m a little worried about,” he said, untwisting the knife so that he could hold onto it.

“ _And you ducking right after, but I think you’ve got that covered well enough,”_ Jeffrey agreed.

“‘Ducking’,” John repeated.

“ _What, you think he won’t shoot you the second he sees you?  Like I said, your reflexes are already fast enough for you to escape.  The trick is not letting the duck interfere with the throw,”_ Jeffrey said, sounding oddly cheerful despite their situation.  Similar to Sherlock who could be waist-deep in trouble but still be enthusiastic about something the killer stupidly said in front of them.  Then, as though hearing John’s unspoken thoughts, Jeffrey said, _“I’ve already sent out the distress alert, so MI6, and maybe even MI5, will be here in a few minutes.  Think you can hold on for that long?”_

“Debatable, especially when I’m unarmed,” John replied, smiling to himself when he finally spotted a crate with a label.  “Just found a crate with a label.  Yay or nay?”

“ _To what?  Blowing stuff up with the contents?  NO!  My answer is no, and just because I don’t have-”_

“Jeffrey?” John said, cutting off the other man’s tirade.  “I didn’t even tell you what was in the crate.”

Silence, and then, “ _Right_. _I knew that.  Sorry.  What’s on the label?”_

“‘Semi-automatic, Kel-Tec Mousegun, .32 caliber rounds’.  I haven’t fired one of these before,” John said, careful to keep his voice down, aware that Moran could arrive at any moment.  “Verdict?” he asked when Jeffrey was quiet a little too long.

“ _Better than nothing, I suppose.  I would have preferred that you used something you were more familiar with, but we can’t be picky now,”_ Jeffrey said, sighing.  _“I cannot stress how careful you must be when opening that, who knows what could happen given the fact that both agencies mislabel on purpose sometimes..._ ”

“How bad exactly is the rivalry between MI5 and MI6?” John asked as he wedged the dull knife into the nearest crack in the crate and began working it open.

“ _Honestly?  I don’t know since I’m not the head of my branch.  Just the second-in-command, so they don’t tell me everything.  And I can’t look it up or my boss will use that as the excuse to have me shot.”_

John paused.  “What?” he asked, not entirely sure he heard Jeffrey correctly.

“ _Even though it happened months ago, my boss is still sort of angry that I hacked MI6, rewrote some of the security access codes, and then anonymously left tips for improving the system’s security.  She made it clear, when we talked, that she’ll have me shot at the first sign of disobedience and/or treason.”_

“With all due respect, what possessed you to do that?” John whispered as he went back to work on the crate.

“ _I used to work for Mycroft, and we got into this huge fight and I went to have a drink or two to forget it.  That night’s a bit of a blur, to be honest.  My current supervisor told me days after the fact about what happened.  Anyway, I managed a week of freedom before the agents showed up.  Then it was five days of running.  Do you know how bloody persistent double-oh agents are?  Anyway, I was arranging for diplomatic immunity in France when the double-ohs showed up and dragged me back to England,”_ Jeffrey admitted.  John could hear the other man’s breathing start to quicken at some half-remembered memory, and he thought fast of the best way to distract Jeffrey.

“Jeffrey, don’t think about it right now, I need you here with me,” John said.  “Stay here, in the present, with me.  Jeffrey, listen to my voice, stay with me,” John said, lowering his voice even more when he heard the sound of the storage room door opening, followed by the familiar footfalls of an injured Moran.  Easing the small firearm out of the partially cracked lid, he said, “Tell me about your sisters.”

Silence, and then, _“What?_ ”

“Your sisters.  Tell me about your sisters,” John whispered, pleased that his plan to distract Jeffrey from his earlier train of thought was working.

 _“Um… Liz is a doctor, as you know.  She’ll be on maternity leave soon though.  She’s younger than Mycroft, but older than the Sherlock in New York.  Lynn, my other sister, is younger that your Sherlock, but she lives in the United States with her American husband.  I’m the youngest of everyone in the family, so I get overlooked often at the family reunions.  Not that I mind though, I sometimes don’t go and manage to get away with it.”_  Jeffrey was quiet for a moment, and then said, “ _What is it that you wanted to know specifically about my family?  Only one other person has ever asked me that, and I didn’t know what he wanted either.”_

“Just curious, I mean, Sherlock barely talks about Mycroft, much less anyone else-”

“Watson!”

John fell promptly silent at Moran’s challenge.  He couldn’t see the ex-sniper, but if his voice was any indication, the sniper was close to John’s hiding place.  John checked the gun, and then quietly swore when he realized that the barrel was empty.

“Watson!  I know you’re here!  Where the hell are you?” Moran bellowed, his limp more pronounced now that he was prowling around the room; John could hear him checking behind crates and moving things around.  “Come on out, and let’s finish this once and for all!”

Ignoring him, John slowly and carefully moved between the crates, crawling as he scanned labels.  He held his breath whenever Moran drew too close, and even stilled for a few minutes as the sniper brushed close to his hiding place.  He wanted to ask Jeffrey for a hint, but didn’t dare. 

 _“Check the crate on the end, with the red label.  They’d keep the ammo separate from the actual weapon to make it take longer for thieves to steal it all.  Time that MI5 can use to come down and catch them.”_   A moment of silence, and then, “ _Thank you, Colonel Moran, for showing us which one.”_

John looked up to see what Jeffrey was talking about, and froze when he spotted Moran not too far away, standing near a crate with a cracked lid.  He kept scanning the room even as he carefully loaded his pistol, studying each and every crevice before sliding the barrel back with a resounding _click_.  Then he finally backed away and started prowling through the crates, forcing John to flatten himself against the ground and remain absolutely still.  He noted that Moran was keeping a close eye on the two doors in the room: the entrance in which John had come in from the hall and the one that led to the office where Jeffrey and John escaped earlier. 

_“It’s now or never.  Either he finds you first or you shoot first.  MI6 ETA is two minutes.  Good luck.”_

John released a slow breath, and then took out the earpiece so that he could focus.  After waiting for Moran to start slowly migrating toward the other side of the room in his search, he managed to crawl to the ammo crate.  Praying that the mousegun’s range would be enough to reach Moran from here, he silently loaded only three bullets.  One to finish the job, two to tide him over to the next reload if he failed. 

His timing was so that when he stood up, Moran turned at the sound of cloth scraping against stone.  Almost simultaneously he raised his firearm at the same time as Moran, both aiming at the same exact time.  John’s hand never wavered.

_Bang!_

Silence fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter will be up soon. :)


	18. Steps

“There were no other gunmen at the scene, other than Moran and his accomplice, that is.”  Mycroft tilted his head, and then added, “Assuming he did in fact have an accomplice, of course.”

John let out a breath between his teeth, but didn’t bother challenging the elder Holmes.  He was at St. Bart’s, the patient this time, and Lestrade was leaning against the doorframe, looking as tired as John felt.  Sherlock evidently had been there as well while John was still unconscious, but had been banished from the room since he’d been making everyone else agitated with his constant pacing by the second day after the rescue.  John meanwhile was confined to a secured hospital room until the doctors had determined he was well enough to move.

According to Lestrade, who had been among the first to arrive to the scene, John was apparently unconscious and lying still, any kind of weapons missing from his person.  He’d been shot in the shoulder… right in the same place as from the wound in Afghanistan.  Moran was also lying not too far from John, dead from a bullet to the heart.  Sherlock meanwhile had ignored Moran in favor of checking John over, and then noting that the lack of weapons in the general vicinity meant that someone, a third party, had come through to clean the evidence away.  The MI6 retrieval team, which had arrived to collect a thoroughly pissed off Jeffrey, said they hadn’t gone anywhere near the storage room, and Lestrade hadn’t seen anyone else while going in and out.

“Is there any evidence of who killed Moran?” John asked, glancing at Lestrade, who shook his head.

“Anderson was able to find that someone took several potshots at him from behind at some point close to his time of death.  For some reason, the gunman wasn’t aiming to kill but rather maim.  Sherlock thinks that the gunman, another bloody sniper, might have been waiting for the chest shot for reassurance that Moran was dead,” Lestrade said, rolling his eyes.  “We did speak to the director of MI6, and she said she had not authorized any of her agents to get involved in what she considers to be a gross security breach.”  Shrugging, he added, “I’m leaving MI5 and MI6 to do the mud-slinging at each other, I’ve got my own work to do here.”

John frowned.  “What is the crux of their argument?” he asked, glancing at Mycroft, who didn’t look too happy.

“MI5 is accusing MI6 of unlawful trespassing.  MI6 denied the claims and pointed out the several security breaches MI5 suffered if two mercenaries were able to get into a supposedly secure facility with two prisoners, one of whom carries great significance to the MI6 infrastructure,” Mycroft said, sighing.  “It’s going to be quite the nightmare at the Defense meetings this week.”

“And since no one has found him, the accomplice went missing.  His name was Patrice, he was going to be taking Jeffrey to an anonymous employer.  They wanted him alive with his hands intact,” John said, glancing at the door as Sherlock quietly slipped inside. 

“No doubt someone who either knows of his MI6 connections, or of his abilities with a computer,” Sherlock said, startling Lestrade.  Glancing at Mycroft, he said, “Aunt Emma made sure that his association with the family was nonexistent after the first kidnapping.”

“That won’t stop anyone with enough persistence,” Mycroft replied, shaking his head.  “After all,” he added, and Sherlock looked up sharply at his tone.  “Your ‘death’ broke your association with Doctor Watson, but that didn’t stop Moran from chasing the doctor anyway.”

Sherlock grimaced while John sighed, leaning back against the pillows on the propped up bed.  “We are going to sit down and talk about that, whether you like it or not,” he said, looking up at Sherlock, careful to make eye contact with the other man.  “As for 221B,” he said slowly, well aware that this was most likely on Sherlock’s mind, “I’d prefer that you came back, but I understand if you don’t want to.  The only thing is that yes, you’d have to put up with Gladstone.”

Sherlock nodded quietly.  Lestrade glanced suspiciously at him, but then turned back to John.  “As for Mrs. Hudson, turns out she was with Mrs. Redding the whole time, Jeffrey’s sister, right?” he said, glancing briefly at Mycroft for confirmation.  The other man nodded, and then Lestrade said, “Gladstone is all right as well, managed to bite one of Jeffrey’s kidnappers and put him in the hospital.  The man’s under guard now, but he’s just hired help, and doesn’t know anything that could help us.”

“My people will help confirm that,” Mycroft said, and John caught the hidden promise.  “In the meantime however, you need to rest.  Sherlock, I believe it is time to cash in that favor you owe me?” he said, turning to face his younger brother, who scowled.

“Favor?  What favor?” Lestrade asked, looking confused.

“How do you think Sherlock got out of the country unnoticed?” John asked dryly.  “It must have been one heck of a favor though,” he said, noting that Sherlock was squirming slightly with irritation.

“Quite.  But at least I was nice, and found a method that you might enjoy,” Mycroft said, watching Sherlock.  “I trust you remember my acquaintance, Monsieur François Lefèvre, from Mummy’s little summer get-together a couple years before you went to university?”

Sherlock stopped squirming.  “I thought he’d be dead by now,” he said, looking unexpectedly surprised. 

That was John’s first hint that he was missing something.

“Unfortunately, no, he’s still quite alive and I expect him to be so for another good several decades,” Mycroft said, looking distinctly displeased at the news.  “Anyway, he was foolish enough to invest quite a significant amount of money into renovating an old Parisian opera house with the hopes of garnering public support for the upcoming elections.  He wishes to have it open in time for the opera season.  As fate would have it, there are daily problems surrounding the process, and several people have already been threatened with falling equipment and other such ‘freak accidents’, as Lefèvre put it.  Many of the cast, crew, and workers are threatening to quit should this keep up, and Lefèvre does not want to risk bad publicity.  He is willing to pay quite handsomely should you discover the cause of the accidents.”

John could tell that Sherlock was interested, but at the same time not motivated enough by the case to accept.  “I assume that the personnel are a superstitious lot, and are blaming it on a spirit?” Sherlock finally asked.

“That is correct, especially given that this is the same opera house that inspired Gaston Leroux’s _Phantom of the Opera_ ,” Mycroft said tiredly.  “Again, it comes down to a basic publicity stunt that is about to take a turn for the worse.”

“And if he wants to, John can come as well?” Sherlock asked warily.

“Yes.  You would let me know when you were prepared to take the case, and then I would inform Monsieur Lefèvre of your arrival,” Mycroft said, gathering his umbrella.  “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have two agencies to soothe over.  Sherlock, so that you know, Monsieur Lefèvre is staying with Aunt Alexandrine, she came to London a few nights ago to host him.  Be _nice_ when you’re there, please,” Mycroft warned before gesturing that Lestrade follow him.  “Detective Inspector, I do have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind that is…”

Sherlock closed the door behind the two of them, and then slowly moved to the chair next to John’s bedside and sat down.  He leaned back and for a moment, neither man spoke.

“Why didn’t you tell me about what Moriarty had planned?” John finally asked.

“Because there wasn’t enough time after the trial, especially when I found out how Moriarty was going to play out the rest of the story.  You hadn’t asked to get that involved, and there _was no time_.  My original intentions for the hospital encounter with Moriarty were that I would try to corner him and force him to confess.  Then I would have returned with everything taken care of.  What I didn’t know until that moment was that Moriarty had snipers in place to ensure that I died.  It wasn’t _safe_ ,” Sherlock said, still avoiding eye contact with John.  “After that… after I slipped, I didn’t want you to pay for that, so I did everything I could to keep Moran away from you and vice versa.”

“Sherlock, I’ve managed on my own pretty well before I met you, I think I can handle a little more danger,” John said, fighting off the yawn that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Yes, I do believe you.  My younger cousin commended your actions while the two of you were still prisoners,” Sherlock said, looking unusually chastised; a first for him.  “You should rest now, the doctors did anticipate some future potential problems, and advised that you rest for now until they are certain you are feeling better.”

“Are you going to leave?”

For a moment, Sherlock didn’t say anything.  Then he said, “I will return once I receive the full case details from Mycroft, he should still be right outside the door.”  Tilting his head, he added, “But I will return, I promise.”

John hesitated, and then nodded.  Then he lay his head back down against the pillows and closed his eyes to rest.

* * *

“What in the bloody hell were you _thinking?_ ”

Jeffrey flinched involuntarily at his employer’s sharp voice, but otherwise did not answer the rhetorical question.  He was sitting in the office of MI6’s director with three other agents, two of which were in this as deep as he was, one of which was there because he wouldn’t let Jeffrey out of his sight ever since Moran’s two henchmen had broken into their flat.  M undoubtedly had plans to grill the three sitting in front of her, but the one in the back was getting on her nerves.  “Get the hell out of my office, double-oh seven, while you still can,” she warned, looking up at the offending agent.

“Hm, I don’t know if I want to.  Ma’am,” 007 said, still taking it easy.  He smirked when the agent next to Jeffrey, 001, coughed to cover up a laugh. 

M was not amused.  “You will leave, or so help me I will send R here to another MI6 location _while_ you are gone and he will be nigh untraceable,” she warned, straightening as Jeffrey swallowed at the mention of his own codename in the same sentence as ‘untraceable’.  In MI6 terms, ‘untraceable’ was often synonymous with ‘dead’. 

He glanced back at 007 and said, “I’ll meet you back at the flat tonight, all right?”  _Please don’t make her angrier than she already is,_ he thought, hoping that 007 would catch on.

Evidently he did.  He reluctantly stood up, glanced once more at Jeffrey as though for some sort of reassurance before ignoring M and shouldering her door open, nearly barreling over the man on the other side.

“Ah, double-oh seven, don’t wander off too far, I might have a little something for you,” the MI6 quartermaster said pleasantly, easily moving out of 007’s way. 

Jeffrey sighed and resisted the urge to slouch in his seat.  If his supervisor was about to get involved… well, there was no way to lie around him, since M could double-check Jeffrey’s story with the quartermaster now rather than later.  Next to him, 001 fidgeted as well; their story had relied on being able to coordinate with the quartermaster before interrogation with M.

“Q, sit down.  I want _someone_ to tell me what the hell is going on.  I have MI5 on the phone howling about perceived injustices, Holmes on another line attempting to schedule meetings on _his_ watch, and _somehow_ , it’s _not_ double-oh seven’s fault this time,” M said as Q shut the door behind him. 

“It’s not double-oh seven’s fault because it’s actually mine,” Q said apologetically as he sat down on Jeffrey’s other side.  “I did what I felt was necessary at the time.”

Jeffrey prided himself on not reacting on instinct.  001 seemed stunned for the briefest of seconds before his usual expressionless mask returned.  002, on his other side, frowned slightly but didn’t say anything.

M was less than impressed.  “Explain,” she quietly ordered.

Q nodded.  “I felt that it was time for R to attempt directing his own mission with the double-ohs without any assistance from me, so I suggested to him that he work with double-oh one and two, since they are the easiest of the nine to manage, and have no personal ties,” he explained, and Jeffrey realized what it was that his boss was doing.  Hopefully the two other agents with him would also catch the message…

“Is this true, R?” M asked, turning to face him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jeffrey replied, trying not to squirm under her steady gaze.  “We’d tracked Moran for several weeks, but did not think it concerning enough to warrant your notification as you were busy at the time,” he said, forcing himself to relax.  “I just happened to miscalculate Moran’s intentions, and was not aware that he was actually chasing several civilians before coming after me in what appeared to be a contracted assignment.”

“Is he dead?” M asked, turning to 001.

“Yes ma’am.  The headshot was too difficult without risking injury to the hostages.  I had to provoke him into turning around for a chest shot, but ended up waiting until he turned on a hostage in order to kill him.  The Met took the body,” 001 dutifully reported, 002 nodding beside him in confirmation.

M stared at the four of them, and Jeffrey realized with mute horror that she wasn’t buying it.  “Do you four seriously think you can lie to me and expect me to fall for it?” she finally asked, eyes narrowing as she refocused on Jeffrey. 

“No, ma’am,” Jeffrey said, hoping that Q could save his skin one more time.

“With all due respect, M, no one except Moran died.  R did well up until he slipped and was captured, but he was retrieved, no harm done,” Q said, smiling as M turned to glare at him.  “You yourself were just saying the other day that double-oh one and two needed to burn energy, which they did.  R’s fingers will heal, and in the meantime, he can still work in R&D for now, he was working with some of the personnel in creating some new gadgets that can be field tested soon.”

Jeffrey nearly rolled his eyes when he felt 001 – and most likely 002, all double-ohs had one track of mind sometimes – perk up at the mention of new gadgets.  Q had allowed Jeffrey to work in R&D early on in his employment, a concession after getting first hired, and then punished for hacking MI6.  The punishment had consisted of working in the recruit pool, fixing someone else’s coding, and Jeffrey thought he’d be doomed there for the required year until Q casually reassigned him to R&D, commenting that he didn’t want to waste talent.  M had been informed that the change was done to remove Jeffrey from further temptation.  All in all, it worked out for everyone.

Now if only he could find a way to get the double-ohs to _stop_ breaking their new toys…

“Very well,” M finally said after listening to Q; Jeffrey had zoned out.  “You three are off the hook for now,” she said, leaning back in her chair.  “It appears that we have a sensitive matter in Italy that requires our personalized attention.  I need your assessment of the situation first, quartermaster.  Perhaps double-oh seven would be able to accomplish it?” she said, looking pointedly at Q and not Jeffrey.

“Of course, he’s available as far as I know,” Q said, gesturing for Jeffrey and the two other agents to leave.  Jeffrey took the hint and stood up, nodding respectfully toward M before escaping as politely as he could.

He stepped aside to allow 001 and 002 out, both visibly relaxing once they were out of the office.  007 started to move toward him, but M barked, “In here, double-oh seven.  Now.”

“Tonight, remember?” Jeffrey whispered, squeezing the agent’s hand for the briefest of seconds as they walked past each other, 007 pausing long enough make eye contact for reassurance.  Then Jeffrey turned and left the lobby, walking toward the lifts to head back to Q-Branch.  He knew he was extremely lucky, that MI6 had found him first back in the facility before Patrice.  Luckier still that Q managed to pull him out of the figurative fire, and thus keep him out of too much trouble with M.  The only thing was that something didn’t sit right with Jeffrey about the whole situation, such as the fact that they _still_ didn’t know where Patrice went or who he worked for. 

Or why he wanted Jeffrey for that matter.

Jeffrey shuddered, and tried not to think about it too much at that moment.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is it for Somehow Here Again. This series has two more parts, but I’m going to wait a little before starting the next part, and finish up some of the other current works in progress first. Thank you for bearing with me, and I hope you enjoyed it! Everyone belongs to their proper owners.

**Author's Note:**

> My first 'Sherlock' fic, I apologize in advance for all errors.
> 
> I apologize in advance also for any errors with British terminology/London geography, and this has not been edited for things like that. I’m open to working with anyone on that.
> 
> NaNoWriMo permitting, this story will have Saturday updates.


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